1881
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
A TALE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE OF ALL AGES
by Mark Twain
PREFACE
PREFACE
I will set down a tale as it was told to me by one who had it of
his father, which latter had it of his father, this last having in
like manner had it of his father- and so on, back and still back,
three hundred years and more, the fathers transmitting it to the
sons and so preserving it. It may be history, it may be only legend, a
tradition. It may have happened, it may not have happened: but it
could have happened. It may be that the wise and the learned
believed it in the old days; it may be that only the unlearned and the
simple loved it and credited it.
Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, to Lord Cromwell, on the
birth of the Prince of Wales (afterward Edward VI).
[From the National Manuscripts preserved by the British
Government]
Ryght honorable, Salutem in Christo Jesu, and Syr here ys no lesse
joynge and rejossynge in thes partees for the byrth of our prynce,
hoom we hungurde for so longe, then ther was (I trow), inter vicinos
att the byrth of S. I. Baptyste, as thys berer, Master Erance, can
telle you. Gode gyffe us alle grace, to yelde dew thankes to our Lorde
Gode, Gode of Inglonde, for verely He hathe shoyd Hym selff Gode of
Inglond, or rather an Inglyssh Gode, yf we consydyr and pondyr welle
alle Hys procedynges with us from tyme to tyme. He hath overcumme alle
our yllness with Hys excedynge goodnesse, so that we ar now moor
then compelled to serve Hym, seke Hys glory, promott Hys wurde, yf the
Devylle of alle Devylles be natt in us. We have now the stoppe of
vayne trustes ande the stey of vayne expectations; lett us alle pray
for hys preservation. And I for my partt wylle wyssh that hys Grace
allways have, and evyn now from the begynynge, Governares,
Instructores and offyceres of ryght jugmente, ne optimum ingenium
non optima educatione depravetur.
Butt whatt a grett fowlle am I! So, whatt devotione shoyth many
tymys butt lytelle dyscretione! Ande thus the Gode of Inglonde be ever
with you in alle your procedynges.
The 19 of October.
Yours H. L. b. of Wurcestere, now att Hartlebury.
Yf you wolde excytt thys berere to be moore hartye ayen the
abuse of ymagry or mor forwarde to promotte the veryte, ytt myght
doo goode. Natt that ytt came of me butt of your selffe, &c.
The quality of mercy...
is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
MERCHANT OF VENICE
CHAPTER I
The Birth of the Prince and the Pauper
IN the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the
second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor
family of the name of Canty, who did not want him. On the same day
another English child was born to a rich family of the name of
Tudor, who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so
longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him, that, now
that he was really come, the people went nearly mad for joy. Mere
acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took a
holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang,
and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights
together. By day, London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving
from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageants marching along.
By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at
every corner, and its troops of revelers making merry around them.
There was no talk in all England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor,
Prince of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of
all this fuss, and not knowing that great lords and ladies were
tending him and watching over him- and not caring, either. But there
was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his poor
rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to
trouble with his presence.
CHAPTER II
Tom's Early Life
LET us skip a number of years.
London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town- for
that day. It had a hundred thousand inhabitants- some think double
as many. The streets were very narrow, and crooked, and dirty,
especially in the part where Tom Canty lived, which was not far from
London Bridge. The houses were of wood, with the second story
projecting over the first, and the third sticking its elbows out
beyond the second. The higher the houses grew, the broader they
grew. They were skeletons of strong crisscross beams, with solid
material between, coated with plaster. The beams were painted red or
blue or black, according to the owner's taste, and this gave the
houses a very picturesque look. The windows were small, glazed with
little diamond-shaped panes, and they opened outward, on hinges,
like doors.
The house which Tom's father lived in was up a foul little
pocket called Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed,
and rickety, but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families.
Canty's tribe occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and
father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his grandmother,
and his two sisters, Bet and Nan, were not restricted- they had all
the floor to themselves, and might sleep where they chose. There
were the remains of a blanket or two, and some bundles of ancient
and dirty straw, but these could not rightly be called beds, for
they were not organized; they were kicked into a general pile
mornings, and selections made from the mass at night, for service.
Bet and Nan were fifteen years old- twins. They were
good-hearted girls, unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant.
Their mother was like them. But the father and the grandmother were
a couple of fiends. They got drunk whenever they could; then they
fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed and
swore always, drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief, and his mother a
beggar. They made beggars of the children, but failed to make
thieves of them. Among, but not of, the dreadful rabble that inhabited
the house, was a good old priest whom the king had turned out of house
and home with a pension of a few farthings, and he used to get the
children aside and teach them right ways secretly. Father Andrew
also taught Tom a little Latin, and how to read and write; and would
have done the same for the girls, but they were afraid of the jeers of
their friends, who could not have endured such a queer
accomplishment in them.
All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty's house.
Drunkenness, riot, and brawling were the order there, every night
and nearly all night long. Broken heads were as common as hunger in
that place. Yet little Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of
it, but did not know it. It was the sort of time that all the Offal
Court boys had, therefore he supposed it was the correct and
comfortable thing. When he came home empty-handed at night, he knew
his father would curse him and thrash him first, and that when he
was done the awful grandmother would do it all over again and
improve on it; and that away in the night his starving mother would
slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap of crust she had
been able to save for him by going hungry herself, notwithstanding she
was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it
by her husband.
No, Tom's life went along well enough, especially in summer. He
only begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against
mendicancy were stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a
good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew's charming old
tales and legends about giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii, and
enchanted castles, and gorgeous kings and princes. His head grew to be
full of these wonderful things, and many a night as he lay in the dark
on his scant and offensive straw, tired, hungry, and smarting from a
thrashing, he unleashed his imagination and soon forgot his aches
and pains in delicious picturings to himself of the charmed life of
a petted prince in a regal palace. One desire came in time to haunt
him day and night; it was to see a real prince, with his own eyes.
He spoke of it once to some of his Offal Court comrades; but they
jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that he was glad to keep
his dream to himself after that.
He often read the priest's old books and got him to explain and
enlarge upon them. His dreamings and readings worked certain changes
in him by and by. His dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament
his shabby clothing and his dirt, and to wish to be clean and better
clad. He went on playing in the mud just the same, and enjoying it,
too; but instead of splashing around in the Thames solely for the
fun of it, he began to find an added value in it because of the
washings and cleansings it afforded.
Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in
Cheapside, and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of
London had a chance to see a military parade when some famous
unfortunate was carried prisoner to the Tower, by land or boat. One
summer's day he saw poor Anne Askew and three men burned at the
stake in Smithfield, and heard an ex-bishop preach a sermon to them
which did not interest him. Yes, Tom's life was varied and pleasant
enough, on the whole.
By and by Tom's reading and dreaming about princely life wrought
such a strong effect upon him that he began to act the prince,
unconsciously. His speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and
courtly, to the vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. But
Tom's influence among these young people began to grow now, day by
day; and in time he came to be looked up to by them with a sort of
wondering awe, as a superior being. He seemed to know so much! and
he could do such marvellous things! and withal, he was so deep and
wise! Tom's remarks and Tom's performances were reported by the boys
to their elders; and these, also, presently began to discuss Tom
Canty, and to regard him as a most gifted and extraordinary
creature. Full-grown people brought their perplexities to Tom for
solution, and were often astonished at the wit and wisdom of his
decisions. In fact, he was become a hero to all who knew him except
his own family- these only saw nothing in him.
Privately, after a while, Tom organized a royal court! He was
the prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries,
lords and ladies in waiting, and the royal family. Daily the mock
prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from
his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom
were discussed in the royal council, and daily his mimic highness
issued decrees to his imaginary armies, navies, and viceroyalties.
After which he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings,
eat his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse, and then
stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw, and resume his empty
grandeurs in his dreams.
And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in
the flesh, grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at
last it absorbed all other desires, and became the one passion of
his life.
One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped
despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and
Little East Cheap, hour after hour, barefooted and cold, looking in at
cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork-pies and other
deadly inventions displayed there- for to him these were dainties
fit for the angels; that is, judging by the smell, they were- for it
had never been his good luck to own and eat one. There was a cold
drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was a melancholy day. At
night Tom reached home so wet and tired and hungry that it was not
possible for his father and grandmother to observe his forlorn
condition and not be moved- after their fashion; wherefore they gave
him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. For a long time his
pain and hunger, and the swearing and fighting going on in the
building, kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to
far, romantic lands, and he fell asleep in the company of jeweled
and gilded princelings who lived in vast palaces, and had servants
salaaming before them or flying to execute their orders. And then,
as usual, he dreamed that he was a princeling himself.
All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him;
he moved among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light,
breathing perfumes, drinking in delicious music, and answering the
reverent obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make
way for him, with here a smile, and there a nod of his princely head.
And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the
wretchedness about him, his dream had had its usual effect- it had
intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. Then
came bitterness, and heartbreak, and tears.
CHAPTER III
Tom's Meeting with the Prince
TOM got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his
thoughts busy with the shadowy splendors of his night's dreams. He
wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he was
going, or what was happening around him. People jostled him and some
gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By and
by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had
ever traveled in that direction. He stopped and considered a moment,
then fell into his imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls
of London. The Strand had ceased to be a country-road then, and
regarded itself as a street, but by a strained construction; for,
though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of
it, there were only some scattering great buildings on the other,
these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample and beautiful grounds
stretching to the river- grounds that are now closely packed with grim
acres of brick and stone.
Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at
the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days;
then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal's
stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond-
Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry,
the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the
huge stone gateways, with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of
colossal granite lions, and the other signs and symbols of English
royalty. Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last? Here,
indeed, was a king's palace. Might he not hope to see a prince now-
a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven were willing?
At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue, that is
to say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from
head to heel in shining steel armor. At a respectful distance were
many country-folk, and people from the city, waiting for any chance
glimpse of royalty that might offer. Splendid carriages, with splendid
people in them and splendid servants outside, were arriving and
departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal
inclosure.
Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly
and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising
hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a
spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy,
tanned and brown with sturdy outdoors sports and exercises, whose
clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at
his hip a little jeweled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet,
with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping
plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen
stood near- his servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince- a
prince, a living prince, a real prince- without the shadow of a
question; and the prayer of the pauper boy's heart was answered at
last.
Tom's breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes
grew big with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind
instantly to one desire: that was to get close to the prince, and have
a good, devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about, he
had his face against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the
soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him spinning among the
gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers. The soldier said:
'Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!'
The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the
gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation,
and cried out:
'How dar'st thou use a poor lad like that! How dar'st thou use the
king my father's meanest subject so! Open the gates, and let him in!'
You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then.
You should have heard them cheer, and shout, 'Long live the Prince
of Wales!'
The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates,
and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in
his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless
Plenty. Edward Tudor said:
'Thou lookest tired and hungry; thou'st been treated ill. Come
with me.'
Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to- I don't know what;
interfere, no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal
gesture, and they stopped stock still where they were like so many
statues. Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he
called his cabinet. By his command a repast was brought such as Tom
had never encountered before except in books. The prince, with
princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the servants, so that his
humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then
he sat near by, and asked questions while Tom ate.
'What is thy name, lad?'
'Tom Canty, an it please thee, sir.'
''Tis an odd one. Where dost live?'
'In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane.'
'Offal Court! Truly, 'tis another odd one. Hast parents?'
'Parents have I, sir, and a grandam likewise that is but
indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offense to say
it- also twin sisters, Nan and Bet.'
'Then is thy grandam not overkind to thee, I take it.'
'Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a
wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days.'
'Doth she mistreat thee?'
'There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or
overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgment clear again, she
maketh it up to me with goodly beatings.'
A fierce look came into the little prince's eyes, and he cried
out:
'What! Beatings?'
'O, indeed, yes, please you, sir.'
'Beatings!- and thou so frail and little. Hark ye: before the
night come, she shall hie her to the Tower. The king my father-'
'In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree. The Tower is for the
great alone.'
'True, indeed. I had not thought of that. I will consider of her
punishment. Is thy father kind to thee?'
'Not more than Gammer Canty, sir.'
'Fathers be alike, mayhap. Mine hath not a doll's temper. He
smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me; he spareth me not always
with his tongue, though, sooth to say. How doth thy mother use thee?'
'She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any
sort. And Nan and Bet are like to her in this.'
'How old be these?'
'Fifteen, an it please you, sir.'
'The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen and the Lady Jane
Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal;
but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and- Look you: do
thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their
souls?'
'They? Oh, dost think, sir, that they have servants?'
The little prince contemplated the little pauper gravely a moment,
then said:
'And prithee, why not? Who helpeth them undress at night? who
attireth them when they rise?'
'None, sir. Wouldst have them take off their garment, and sleep
without- like the beasts?'
'Their garment! Have they but one?'
'Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more? Truly,
they have not two bodies each.'
'It is a quaint and marvelous thought! Thy pardon, I had not meant
to laugh. But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment and
lackeys enow, and that soon, too: my cofferer shall look to it. No,
thank me not; 'tis nothing. Thou speakest well; thou hast an easy
grace in it. Art learned?'
'I know not if I am or not, sir. The good priest that is called
Father Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books.'
'Know'st thou the Latin?'
'But scantily, sir, I doubt.'
'Learn it, lad: 'tis hard only at first. The Greek is harder;
but neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the
Lady Elizabeth and my cousin. Thou shouldst hear those damsels at
it! But tell me of thy Offal Court. Hast thou a pleasant life there?'
'In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry. There
be Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys- oh, such antic creatures! and so
bravely dressed!- and there be plays wherein they that play do shout
and fight till all are slain, and 'tis so fine to see, and costeth but
a farthing- albeit 'tis main hard to get the farthing, please your
worship.'
'Tell me more.'
'We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the
cudgel, like to the fashion of the 'prentices, sometimes.'
The prince's eyes flashed. Said he:
'Marry, that would I not mislike. Tell me more.'
'We strive in races, sir, to see who of us shall be fleetest.'
'That would I like also. Speak on.'
'In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the
river, and each doth duck his neighbor, and spatter him with water,
and dive and shout and tumble and-'
''Twould be worth my father's kingdom but to enjoy it once!
Prithee go on.'
'We dance and sing about the Maypole in Cheapside; we play in
the sand, each covering his neighbor up; and times we make mud pastry-
oh, the lovely mud, it hath not its like for delightfulness in all the
world!- we do fairly wallow in the mud, sir, saving your worship's
presence.'
'Oh, prithee, say no more, 'tis glorious! If that I could but
clothe me in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel in
the mud once, just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid, meseemeth I
could forego the crown!'
'And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art
clad- just once-'
'Oho, wouldst like it? Then so shall it be. Doff thy rags, and don
these splendors, lad! It is a brief happiness, but will be not less
keen for that. We will have it while we may, and change again before
any come to molest.'
A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded
with Tom's fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of
Pauperdom was tricked out in the gaudy plumage of royalty. The two
went and stood side by side before a great mirror, and lo, a
miracle: there did not seem to have been any change made! They
stared at each other, then at the glass, then at each other again.
At last the puzzled princeling said:
'What dost thou make of this?'
'Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. It is not meet
that one of my degree should utter the thing.'
'Then will I utter it. Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the
same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and
countenance, that I bear. Fared we forth naked, there is none could
say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales. And, now that I am
clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more
nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier- Hark ye, is not
this a bruise upon your hand?'
'Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that
the poor man-at-arms-'
'Peace! It was a shameful thing and a cruel!' cried the little
prince, stamping his bare foot. 'If the king- Stir not a step till I
come again! It is a command!'
In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national
importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying
through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and
glowing eyes. As soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the
bars, and tried to shake them, shouting: 'Open! Unbar the gates!'
The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the
prince burst through the portal, half smothered with royal wrath,
the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him
whirling to the roadway, and said:
'Take that, thou beggar's spawn for what thou got'st me from his
Highness!'
The crowd roared with laughter. The prince picked himself out of
the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting:
'I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt
hang for laying thy hand upon me!'
The soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said
mockingly:
'I salute your gracious Highness.' Then angrily, 'Be off, thou
crazy rubbish!'
Here the jeering crowd closed around the poor little prince, and
hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting. 'Way for his
royal Highness! way for the Prince of Wales!'
CHAPTER IV
The Prince's Troubles Begin
AFTER hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little
prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself. As long
as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it
royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh
at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to
be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and they
sought amusement elsewhere. He looked about him now, but could not
recognize the locality. He was within the city of London- that was all
he knew. He moved on, aimlessly, and in a little while the houses
thinned, and the passers-by were infrequent. He bathed his bleeding
feet in the brook which flowed then where Farringdon Street now is;
rested a few moments, then passed on, and presently came upon a
great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a prodigious
church. He recognized this church. Scaffoldings were about,
everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate
repairs. The prince took heart at once- he felt that his troubles were
at an end now. He said to himself, 'It is the ancient Grey Friars'
church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given
for a home forever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it
Christ's church. Right gladly will they serve the son of him who
hath done so generously by them- and the more that that son is himself
as poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever
shall be.'
He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running,
jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog and otherwise disporting
themselves, and right noisily, too. They were all dressed alike, and
in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men and
'prentices'- that is to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat
black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not useful as a
covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither was it
ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the middle
of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a clerical band at
the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as low as the knees
or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow stockings,
gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles. It was a
sufficiently ugly costume.
The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said
with native dignity:
'Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales
desireth speech with him.'
A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said:
'Marry, art thou his grace's messenger, beggar?'
The prince's face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to
his hip, but there was nothing there. There was a storm of laughter,
and one boy said:
'Didst mark that? He fancied he had a sword- belike he is the
prince himself.'
This sally brought more laughter. Poor Edward drew himself up
proudly and said:
'I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king
my father's bounty to use me so.'
This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified. The youth
who had first spoken shouted to his comrades:
'Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace's princely father,
where be your manners? Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do
reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!'
With boisterous mirth they dropped upon their knees in a body
and did mock homage to their prey. The prince spurned the nearest
boy with his foot, and said fiercely:
'Take thou that, till the morrow come and I build thee a gibbet!'
Ah, but this was not a joke- this was going beyond fun. The
laughter ceased on the instant and fury took its place. A dozen
shouted:
'Hale him forth! To the horse-pond, to the horse-pond! Where be
the dogs? Ho, there, Lion! ho, Fangs!'
Then followed such a thing as England had never seen before- the
sacred person of the heir to the throne rudely buffeted by plebeian
hands, and set upon and torn by dogs.
As night drew to a close that day, the prince found himself far
down in the close-built portion of the city. His body was bruised, his
hands were bleeding, and his rags were all besmirched with mud. He
wandered on and on, and grew more and more bewildered, and so tired
and faint he could hardly drag one foot after the other. He had ceased
to ask questions of any one, since they brought him only insult
instead of information. He kept muttering to himself, 'Offal Court-
that is the name; if I can but find it before my strength is wholly
spent and I drop, then am I saved- for his people will take me to
the palace and prove that I am none of theirs, but the true prince,
and I shall have mine own again.' And now and then his mind reverted
to his treatment by those rude Christ's Hospital boys, and he said,
'When I am king, they shall not have bread and shelter only, but
also teachings out of books; for a full belly is little worth where
the mind is starved, and the heart. I will keep this diligently in
my remembrance, that this day's lesson be not lost upon me, and my
people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the heart and breedeth
gentleness and charity.'(2)
The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose,
and a raw and gusty night set in. The houseless prince, the homeless
heir to the throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into
the maze of squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and
misery were massed together.
Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said:
'Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a
farthing home, I warrant me! If it be so, an I do not break all the
bones in thy lean body, then am I not John Canty, but some other.'
The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his
profaned shoulder, and eagerly said:
'Oh, art his father, truly? Sweet heaven grant it be so- then wilt
thou fetch him away and restore me!'
'His father? I know not what thou mean'st; I but know I am thy
father, as thou shalt soon have cause to-'
'Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!- I am worn, I am wounded,
I can bear no more. Take me to the king my father, and he will make
thee rich beyond thy wildest dreams. Believe me, man, believe me! I
speak no lie, but only the truth!- put forth thy hand and save me! I
am indeed the Prince of Wales!'
The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his
head and muttered:
'Gone stark mad as any Tom o' Bedlam!'- then collared him once
more, and said with a coarse laugh and an oath, 'But mad or no mad,
I and thy Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy
bones lie, or I'm no true man!'
With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and
disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm
of human vermin.
CHAPTER V
Tom as a Patrician
TOM CANTY, left alone in the prince's cabinet, made good use of
his opportunity. He turned himself this way and that before the
great mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the
prince's high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass.
Next he drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and
laying it across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by
way of salute to the lieutenant of the Tower, five or six weeks
before, when delivering the great lords of Norfolk and Surrey into his
hands for captivity. Tom played with the jeweled dagger that hung upon
his thigh; he examined the costly and exquisite ornaments of the room;
he tried each of the sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he
would be if the Offal Court herd could only peep in and see him in his
grandeur. He wondered if they would believe the marvelous tale he
should tell when he got home, or if they would shake their heads,
and say his overtaxed imagination had at last upset his reason.
At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the
prince was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel
lonely; very soon he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to
toy with the pretty things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless,
then distressed. Suppose some one should come, and catch him in the
prince's clothes, and the prince not there to explain. Might they
not hang him at once, and inquire into his case afterward? He had
heard that the great were prompt about small matters. His fears rose
higher and higher; and trembling he softly opened the door to the
ante-chamber, resolved to fly and seek the prince, and through him,
protection and release. Six gorgeous gentlemen-servants and two
young pages of high degree, clothed like butterflies, sprung to
their feet, and bowed low before him. He stepped quickly back, and
shut the door. He said:
'Oh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why came I here
to cast away my life?'
He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears,
listening, starting at every trifling sound. Presently the door
swung open, and a silken page said:
'The Lady Jane Grey.'
The door closed, and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded
toward him.
But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice:
'Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?'
Tom's breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to
stammer out:
'Ah, be merciful, thou! In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom
Canty of Offal Court in the city. Prithee let me see the prince, and
he will of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt.
Oh, be thou merciful, and save me!'
By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his
eyes and uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. The young girl
seemed horror-stricken. She cried out:
'Oh, my lord, on thy knees? and to me!'
Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair,
sank down, murmuring:
'There is no help, there is no hope. Now will they come and take
me.'
Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were
speeding through the palace. The whisper, for it was whispered always,
flew from menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long
corridors, from story to story, from saloon to saloon, 'The prince
hath gone mad, the prince hath gone mad!' Soon every saloon, every
marble hall, had its groups of glittering lords and ladies, and
other groups of dazzling lesser folk, talking earnestly together in
whispers, and every face had in it dismay. Presently a splendid
official came marching by these groups, making solemn proclamation:
'IN THE NAME OF THE KING
Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death,
nor discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the king!'
The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been
stricken dumb.
Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of 'The prince!
See, the prince comes!'
Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to
bow in return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with
bewildered and pathetic eyes. Great nobles walked upon each side of
him, making him lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him
followed the court physicians and some servants.
Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace,
and heard the door close behind him. Around him stood those who had
come with him.
Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very
fat man, with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. His large
head was very gray; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his
face, like a frame, were gray also. His clothing was of rich stuff,
but old, and slightly frayed in places. One of his swollen legs had
a pillow under it, and was wrapped in bandages. There was silence now;
and there was no head there but was bent in reverence, except this
man's. This stern-countenanced invalid was the dread Henry VIII. He
said- and his face grew gentle as he began to speak:
'How now, my lord Edward, my prince? Hast been minded to cozen me,
the good king thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with
a sorry jest?'
Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let
him, to the beginning of this speech; but when the words 'me the
good king' fell upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as
instantly upon his knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting
up his hands, he exclaimed:
'Thou the king? Then am I undone indeed!'
This speech seemed to stun the king. His eyes wandered from face
to face aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him.
Then he said in a tone of deep disappointment:
'Alack, I had believed the rumor disproportioned to the truth; but
I fear me 'tis not so.' He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle
voice, 'Come to thy father, child; thou art not well.'
Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of
England, humble and trembling. The king took the frightened face
between his hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as
if seeking some grateful sign of returning reason there, then
pressed the curly head against his breast, and patted it tenderly.
Presently he said:
'Dost thou know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say
thou know'st me. Thou dost know me, dost thou not?'
'Yea; thou art my dread lord the king, whom God preserve.'
'True, true- that is well- be comforted, tremble not so; there
is none here who would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee.
Thou art better now; thy ill dream passeth- is't not so? And thou
knowest thyself now also- is't not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself
again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?'
'I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth,
most dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a
pauper born, and 'tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here,
albeit I was therein nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou
canst save me with one little word. Oh, speak it, sir!'
'Die? Talk not so, sweet prince- peace, peace, to thy troubled
heart- thou shalt not die!'
Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry:
'God requite thy mercy, oh my king, and save thee long to bless
thy land!' Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two
lords in waiting, and exclaimed, 'Thou heard'st it! I am not to die:
the king hath said it!' There was no movement, save that all bowed
with grave respect; but no one spoke. He hesitated, a little confused,
then turned timidly toward the king, saying, 'I may go now?'
'Go? Surely, if thou desirest. But why not tarry yet a little?
Whither wouldst go?'
Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly:
'Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I
moved to seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to misery,
yet which harboreth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me;
whereas these pomps and splendors whereunto I am not used- oh,
please you, sir, to let me go!'
The king was silent and thoughtful awhile, and his face betrayed a
growing distress and uneasiness. Presently he said, with something
of hope in his voice:
'Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain and hath his wits
unmarred as toucheth other matter. God send it may be so! We will make
trial.'
Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely
in the same tongue. The King was delighted, and showed it. The lords
and doctors manifested their gratification also.
The king said:
''Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but sheweth
that his mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally. How say you,
sir?'
The physician addressed bowed low, and replied:
'It jumpeth with mine own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined
aright.'
The king looked pleased with this encouragement, coming as it
did from so excellent authority, and continued with good heart:
'Now mark ye all: we will try him further.'
He put a question to Tom in French. Tom stood silent a moment,
embarrassed by having so many eyes centered upon him, then said
diffidently:
'I have no knowledge of this tongue, so please your majesty.'
The king fell back upon his couch. The attendants flew to his
assistance; but he put them aside, and said:
'Trouble me not- it is nothing but a scurvy faintness. Raise me!
there, 'tis sufficient. Come hither, child; there, rest thy poor
troubled head upon thy father's heart, and be at peace. Thou'lt soon
be well; 'tis but a passing fantasy. Fear thou not; thou'lt soon be
well.' Then he turned toward the company; his gentle manner changed,
and baleful lightnings began to play from his eyes. He said:
'List ye all! This my son is mad; but it is not permanent.
Overstudy hath done this, and somewhat too much of confinement. Away
with his books and teachers! see ye to it. Pleasure him with sports,
beguile him in wholesome ways, so that his health come again.' He
raised himself higher still and went on with energy. 'He is mad; but
he is my son, and England's heir; and, mad or sane, still shall he
reign! And hear ye further, and proclaim it; whoso speaketh of this
his distemper worketh against the peace and order of these realms, and
shall to the gallows!... Give me to drink- I burn: This sorrow sappeth
my strength.... There, take away the cup.... Support me. There, that
is well. Mad, is he? Were he a thousand times mad, yet is he Prince of
Wales, and I the king will confirm it. This very morrow shall he be
installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form. Take
instant order for it, my Lord Hertford.'
One of the nobles knelt at the royal couch, and said:
'The king's majesty knoweth that the Hereditary Great Marshal of
England lieth attainted in the Tower. It were not meet that one
attainted-'
'Peace! Insult not mine ears with his hated name. Is this man to
live forever? Am I to be balked of my will? Is the prince to tarry
uninstalled, because, forsooth, the realm lacketh an earl marshal free
of treasonable taint to invest him with his honors? No, by the
splendor of God! Warn my parliament to bring me Norfolk's doom
before the sun rise again, else shall they answer for it
grievously!(3)
Lord Hertford said:
'The king's will is law'; and, rising, returned to his former
place.
Gradually the wrath faded out of the old king's face, and he said:
'Kiss me, my prince. There... what fearest thou? Am I not thy
loving father?'
'Thou art good to me that am unworthy, O mighty and gracious lord;
that in truth I know. But- but- it grieveth me to think of him that is
to die, and-'
'Ah, 'tis like thee, 'tis like thee! I know thy heart is still the
same, even though thy mind hath suffered hurt, for thou wert ever of a
gentle spirit. But this duke standeth between thee and thine honors: I
will have another in his stead that shall bring no taint to his
great office. Comfort thee, my prince: trouble not thy poor head
with this matter.'
'But is it not I that speed him hence, my liege? How long might he
not live, but for me?'
'Take no thought of him, my prince: he is not worthy. Kiss me once
again, and go to thy trifles and amusements; for my malady distresseth
me. I am aweary, and would rest. Go with thine uncle Hertford and
thy people, and come again when my body is refreshed.'
Tom, heavy-hearted, was conducted from the presence, for this last
sentence was a death-blow to the hope he had cherished that now he
would be set free. Once more he heard the buzz of low voices
exclaiming, 'The prince, the prince comes!'
His spirits sank lower and lower as he moved between the
glittering files of bowing courtiers; for he recognized that he was
indeed a captive now, and might remain forever shut up in this
gilded cage, a forlorn and friendless prince, except God in his
mercy take pity on him and set him free.
And, turn where he would, he seemed to see floating in the air the
severed head and the remembered face of the great Duke of Norfolk, the
eyes fixed on him reproachfully.
His old dreams had been so pleasant; but this reality was so
dreary!
CHAPTER VI
Tom Recieves Instructions
TOM was conducted to the principal apartment of a noble suite, and
made to sit down- a thing which he was loath to do, since there were
elderly men and men of high degree about him. He begged them to be
seated, also, but they only bowed their thanks or murmured them, and
remained standing. He would have insisted, but his 'uncle,' the Earl
of Hertford, whispered in his ear:
'Prithee, insist not, my lord; it is not meet that they sit in thy
presence.'
The Lord St. John was announced, and, after making obeisance to
Tom, he said:
'I come upon the king's errand, concerning a matter which
requireth privacy. Will it please your royal highness to dismiss all
that attend you here, save my lord the Earl of Hertford?'
Observing that Tom did not seem to know how to proceed, Hertford
whispered him to make a sign with his hand and not trouble himself
to speak unless he chose. When the waiting gentlemen had retired, Lord
St. John said:
'His majesty commandeth, that for due and weighty reasons of
state, the prince's grace shall hide his infirmity in all ways that be
within his power, till it be passed and he be as he was before. To
wit, that he shall deny to none that he is the true prince, and heir
to England's greatness; that he shall uphold his princely dignity, and
shall receive, without word or sign of protest, that reverence and
observance which unto it do appertain of right and ancient usage; that
he shall cease to speak to any of that lowly birth and life his malady
hath conjured out of the unwholesome imaginings of o'erwrought
fancy; that he shall strive with diligence to bring unto his memory
again those faces which he was wont to know- and where he faileth he
shall hold his peace, neither betraying by semblance of surprise, or
other sign, that he hath forgot; that upon occasions of state,
whensoever any matter shall perplex him as to the thing he should do
or the utterance he should make, he shall show naught of unrest to the
curious that look on, but take advice in that matter of the Lord
Hertford, or my humble self, which are commanded of the king to be
upon this service and close at call, till this commandment be
dissolved. Thus saith the king's majesty, who sendeth greeting to your
royal highness and prayeth that God will of His mercy quickly heal you
and have you now and ever in His holy keeping.'
The Lord St. John made reverence and stood aside. Tom replied,
resignedly:
'The king hath said it. None may palter with the king's command,
or fit it to his ease, where it doth chafe, with deft evasions. The
king shall be obeyed.'
Lord Hertford said:
'Touching the king's majesty's ordainment concerning books and
such like serious matters, it may peradventure please your highness to
ease your time with lightsome entertainment, lest you go wearied to
the banquet and suffer harm thereby.'
Tom's face showed inquiring surprise; and a blush followed when he
saw Lord St. John's eyes bent sorrowfully upon him. His lordship said:
'Thy memory still wrongeth thee, and thou hast shown surprise- but
suffer it not to trouble thee, for 'tis a matter that will not bide,
but depart with thy mending malady. My Lord of Hertford speaketh of
the city's banquet which the king's majesty did promise two months
flown, your highness should attend. Thou recallest it now?'
'It grieves me to confess it had indeed escaped me,' said Tom,
in a hesitating voice; and blushed again.
At that moment the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey were
announced. The two lords exchanged significant glances, and Hertford
stepped quickly toward the door. As the young girls passed him, he
said in a low voice:
'I pray ye, ladies, seem not to observe his humors, nor show
surprise when his memory doth lapse- it will grieve you to note how it
doth stick at every trifle.'
Meanwhile Lord St. John was saying in Tom's ear:
'Please you, sir, keep diligently in mind his majesty's desire.
Remember all thou canst- seem to remember all else. Let them not
perceive that thou art much changed from thy wont, for thou knowest
how tenderly thy old playfellows bear thee in their hearts and how
'twould grieve them. Art willing, sir, that I remain?- and thine
uncle?'
Tom signified assent with a gesture and a murmured word, for he
was already learning, and in his simple heart was resolved to acquit
himself as best he might according to the king's command.
In spite of every precaution, the conversation among the young
people became a little embarrassing at times. More than once, in
truth, Tom was near to breaking down and confessing himself unequal to
his tremendous part; but the tact of the Princess Elizabeth saved him,
or a word from one or the other of the vigilant lords, thrown in
apparently by chance, had the same happy effect. Once the little
Lady Jane turned to Tom and dismayed him with this question:
'Hast paid thy duty to the queen's majesty today, my lord?'
Tom hesitated, looked distressed, and was about to stammer out
something at hazard when Lord St. John took the word and answered
for him with the easy grace of a courtier accustomed to encounter
delicate difficulties and to be ready for them:
'He hath indeed, madam, and she did greatly hearten him, as
touching his majesty's condition; is it not so, your highness?'
Tom mumbled something that stood for assent, but felt that he
was getting upon dangerous ground. Somewhat later it was mentioned
that Tom was to study no more at present, whereupon her little
ladyship exclaimed:
''Tis a pity, 'tis such a pity! Thou were proceeding bravely.
But bide thy time in patience; it will not be for long. Thou'lt yet be
graced with learning like thy father, and make thy tongue master of as
many languages as his, good my prince.'
'My father!' cried Tom, off his guard for the moment. 'I trow he
cannot speak his own so that any but the swine that wallow in the
sties may tell his meaning; and as for learning of any sort soever-'
He looked up and encountered a solemn warning in my Lord St.
John's eyes.
He stopped, blushed, then continued low and sadly: 'Ah, my
malady persecuteth me again, and my mind wandereth. I meant the king's
grace no irreverence.'
'We know it, sir,' said the Princess Elizabeth, taking her
'brother's' hand between her two palms, respectfully but
caressingly; 'trouble not thyself as to that. The fault is none of
thine, but thy distemper's.'
'Thou'rt a gentle comforter, sweet lady,' said Tom, gratefully,
'and my heart moveth me to thank thee for't, an I may be so bold.'
Once the giddy little Lady Jane fired a simple Greek phrase at
Tom. The Princess Elizabeth's quick eye saw by the serene blankness of
the target's front that the shaft was overshot; so she tranquilly
delivered a return volley of sounding Greek on Tom's behalf, and
then straightway changed the talk to other matters.
Time wore on pleasantly, and likewise smoothly, on the whole.
Snags and sand-bars grew less and less frequent, and Tom grew more and
more at his ease, seeing that all were so lovingly bent upon helping
him and overlooking his mistakes. When it came out that the little
ladies were to accompany him to the Lord Mayor's banquet in the
evening, his heart gave a bound of relief and delight, for he felt
that he should not be friendless now, among that multitude of
strangers, whereas, an hour earlier, the idea of their going with
him would have been an insupportable terror to him.
Tom's guardian angels, the two lords, had had less comfort in
the interview than the other parties to it. They felt much as if
they were piloting a great ship through a dangerous channel; they were
on the alert constantly, and found their office no child's play.
Wherefore, at last, when the ladies' visit was drawing to a close
and the Lord Guilford Dudley was announced, they not only felt that
their charge had been sufficiently taxed for the present, but also
that they themselves were not in the best condition to take their ship
back and make their anxious voyage all over again. So they
respectfully advised Tom to excuse himself, which he was very glad
to do, although a slight shade of disappointment might have been
observed upon my Lady Jane's face when she heard the splendid
stripling denied admittance.
There was a pause now, a sort of waiting silence which Tom could
not understand. He glanced at Lord Hertford, who gave him a sign-
but he failed to understand that also. The ready Elizabeth came to the
rescue with her usual easy grace. She made reverence and said:
'Have we leave of the prince's grace my brother to go?'
Tom said:
'Indeed, your ladyships can have whatsoever of me they will, for
the asking; yet would I rather give them any other thing that in my
poor power lieth, than leave to take the light and blessing of their
presence hence. Give ye good den, and God be with ye!' Then he
smiled inwardly at the thought, ''tis not for naught I have dwelt
but among princes in my reading, and taught my tongue some slight
trick of their broidered and gracious speech withal!'
When the illustrious maidens were gone, Tom turned wearily to
his keepers and said:
'May it please your lordships to grant me leave to go into some
corner and rest me!'
Lord Hertford said:
'So please your highness, it is for you to command, it is for us
to obey. That thou shouldst rest, is indeed a needful thing, since
thou must journey to the city presently.'
He touched a bell and a page appeared, who was ordered to desire
the presence of Sir William Herbert. This gentleman came
straightway, and conducted Tom to an inner apartment. Tom's first
movement there was to reach for a cup of water; but a
silk-and-velvet servitor seized it, dropped upon one knee, and offered
it to him on a golden salver.
Next, the tired captive sat down and was going to take off his
buskins, timidly asking leave with his eye, but another
silk-and-velvet discomforter went down upon his knees and took the
office from him. He made two or three further efforts to help himself,
but being promptly forestalled each time, he finally gave up, with a
sigh of resignation and a murmured 'Beshrew me, but I marvel they do
not require to breathe for me also!' Slippered, and wrapped in a
sumptuous robe, he laid himself down at last to rest, but not to
sleep, for his head was too full of thoughts and the room too full
of people. He could not dismiss the former, so they stayed; he did not
know enough to dismiss the latter, so they stayed also, to his vast
regret- and theirs.
Tom's departure had left his two noble guardians alone. They mused
awhile, with much headshaking and walking the floor, then Lord St.
John said:
'Plainly, what dost thou think?'
'Plainly, then, this. The king is near his end, my nephew is
mad, mad will mount the throne, and mad remain. God protect England,
since she will need it!'
'Verily it promiseth so, indeed. But... have you no misgivings
as to... as to...'
The speaker hesitated, and finally stopped. He evidently felt that
he was upon delicate ground. Lord Hertford stopped before him,
looked into his face with a clear, frank eye, and said:
'Speak on- there is none to hear but me. Misgivings as to what?'
'I am loath to word the thing that is in my mind, and thou so near
to him in blood, my lord. But craving pardon if I do offend, seemeth
it not strange that madness could so change his port and manner!-
not but that his port and speech are princely still, but that they
differ in one unweighty trifle or another, from what his custom was
aforetime. Seemeth it not strange that madness should filch from his
memory his father's very lineaments; the customs and observances
that are his due from such as be about him; and, leaving him his
Latin, strip him of his Greek and French? My lord, be not offended,
but ease my mind of its disquiet and receive my grateful thanks. It
haunteth me, his saying he was not the prince, and so-'
'Peace, my lord, thou utterest treason! Hast forgot the king's
command? Remember I am party to thy crime, if I but listen.'
St. John paled, and hastened to say:
'I was in fault, I do confess it. Betray me not, grant me this
grace out of thy courtesy, and I will neither think nor speak of
this thing more. Deal not hardly with me, sir, else am I ruined.'
'I am content, my lord. So thou offend not again, here or in the
ears of others, it shall be as though thou hadst not spoken. But
thou needst not have misgivings. He is my sister's son; are not his
voice, his face, his form, familiar to me from his cradle? Madness can
do all the odd conflicting things thou seest in him, and more. Dost
not recall how that the old Baron Marley, being mad, forgot the
favor of his own countenance that he had known for sixty years, and
held it was another's; nay, even claimed he was the son of Mary
Magdalene, and that his head was made of Spanish glass; and sooth to
say, he suffered none to touch it, lest by mischance some heedless
hand might shiver it. Give thy misgivings easement, good my lord. This
is the very prince, I know him well- and soon will be thy king; it may
advantage thee to bear this in mind and more dwell upon it than the
other.'
After some further talk, in which the Lord St. John covered up his
mistake as well as he could by repeated protests that his faith was
thoroughly grounded now, and could not be assailed by doubts again,
the Lord Hertford relieved his fellow-keeper, and sat down to keep
watch and ward alone. He was soon deep in meditation. And evidently
the longer he thought, the more he was bothered. By and by he began to
pace the floor and mutter.
'Tush, he must be the prince! Will any he in all the land maintain
there can be two, not of one blood and birth, so marvelously
twinned? And even were it so, 'twere yet a stranger miracle that
chance should cast the one into the other's place. Nay, 'tis folly,
folly, folly!'
Presently he said:
'Now were he impostor and called himself prince, look you that
would be natural; that would be reasonable. But lived ever an impostor
yet, who, being called prince by the king, prince by the court, prince
by all, denied his dignity and pleaded against his exaltation? No!
By the soul of St. Swithin, no! This is the true prince, gone mad!'
CHAPTER VII
Tom's First Royal Dinner
SOMEWHAT after one in the afternoon, Tom resignedly underwent
the ordeal of being dressed for dinner. He found himself as finely
clothed as before, but everything different, everything changed,
from his ruff to his stockings. He was presently conducted with much
state to a spacious and ornate apartment, where a table was already
set for one. Its furniture was all of massy gold, and beautified
with designs which well-nigh made it priceless, since they were the
work of Benvenuto. The room was half filled with noble servitors. A
chaplain said grace, and Tom was about to fall to, for hunger had long
been constitutional with him, but was interrupted by my lord the
Earl of Berkeley, who fastened a napkin about his neck; for the
great post of Diaperers to the Prince of Wales was hereditary in
this nobleman's family. Tom's cupbearer was present, and forestalled
all his attempts to help himself to wine. The Taster to his Highness
the Prince of Wales was there also, prepared to taste any suspicious
dish upon requirement, and run the risk of being poisoned. He was only
an ornamental appendage at this time, and was seldom called to
exercise his function; but there had been times, not many
generations past, when the office of taster had its perils, and was
not a grandeur to be desired. Why they did not use a dog or a
plumber seems strange; but all the ways of royalty are strange. My
Lord d'Arcy, First Groom of the Chamber, was there, to do goodness
knows what; but there he was- let that suffice. The Lord Chief
Butler was there, and stood behind Tom's chair overseeing the
solemnities, under command of the Lord Great Steward and the Lord Head
Cook, who stood near. Tom had three hundred and eighty-four servants
besides these; but they were not all in that room, of course, nor
the quarter of them; neither was Tom aware yet that they existed.
All those that were present had been well drilled within the
hour to remember that the prince was temporarily out of his head,
and to be careful to show no surprise at his vagaries. These
'vagaries' were soon on exhibition before them; but they only moved
their compassion and their sorrow, not their mirth. It was a heavy
affliction to them to see the beloved prince so stricken.
Poor Tom ate with his fingers mainly; but no one smiled at it,
or even seemed to observe it. He inspected his napkin curiously and
with deep interest, for it was of a very dainty and beautiful
fabric, then said with simplicity:
'Prithee, take it away, lest in mine unheedfulness it be soiled.'
The Hereditary Diaperer took it away with reverent manner, and
without word or protest of any sort.
Tom examined the turnips and the lettuce with interest, and
asked what they were, and if they were to be eaten; for it was only
recently that men had begun to raise these things in England in
place of importing them as luxuries from Holland.(4) His question was
answered with grave respect, and no surprise manifested. When he had
finished his dessert, he filled his pockets with nuts; but nobody
appeared to be aware of it, or disturbed by it. But the next moment he
was himself disturbed by it, and showed discomposure; for this was the
only service he had been permitted to do with his own hands during the
meal, and he did not doubt that he had done a most improper and
unprincely thing. At that moment the muscles of his nose began to
twitch, and the end of that organ to lift and wrinkle. This continued,
and Tom began to evince a growing distress. He looked appealingly,
first at one and then another of the lords about him, and tears came
into his eyes. They sprang forward with dismay in their faces, and
begged to know his trouble. Tom said with genuine anguish:
'I crave your indulgence; my nose itcheth cruelly. What is the
custom and usage in this emergence? Prithee speed, for 'tis but a
little time that I can bear it.'
None smiled; but all were sore perplexed, and looked one to the
other in deep tribulation for counsel. But, behold, here was a dead
wall, and nothing in English history to tell how to get over it. The
Master of Ceremonies was not present; there was no one who felt safe
to venture upon this uncharted sea, or risk the attempt to solve
this solemn problem. Alas! there was no Hereditary Scratcher. Meantime
the tears had overflowed their banks, and begun to trickle down
Tom's cheeks. His twitching nose was pleading more urgently than
ever for relief. At last nature broke down the barriers of
etiquette; Tom lifted up an inward prayer for pardon if he was doing
wrong, and brought relief to the burdened hearts of his court by
scratching his nose himself.
His meal being ended, a lord came and held before him a broad,
shallow, golden dish with fragrant rose-water in it, to cleanse his
mouth and fingers with; and my lord the Hereditary Diaperer stood by
with a napkin for his use. Tom gazed at the dish a puzzled moment or
two, then raised it to his lips, and gravely took a draught. Then he
returned it to the waiting lord, and said:
'Nay, it likes me not, my lord; it hath a pretty flavor, but it
wanteth strength.'
This new eccentricity of the prince's ruined mind made all the
hearts about him ache; but the sad sight moved none to merriment.
Tom's next unconscious blunder was to get up and leave the table
just when the chaplain had taken his stand behind his chair and with
uplifted hands and closed uplifted eyes, was in the act of beginning
the blessing. Still nobody seemed to perceive that the prince had done
a thing unusual.
By his own request, our small friend was now conducted to his
private cabinet, and left there alone to his own devices. Hanging upon
hooks in the oaken wainscoting were the several pieces of a suit of
shining steel armor, covered all over with beautiful designs
exquisitely inlaid in gold. This martial panoply belonged to the
true prince- a recent present from Madam Parr, the queen. Tom put on
the greaves, the gauntlets, the plumed helmet, and such other pieces
as he could don without assistance, and for a while was minded to call
for help and complete the matter, but bethought him of the nuts he had
brought away from dinner, and the joy it would be to eat them with
no crowd to eye him, and no Grand Hereditaries to pester him with
undesired services; so he restored the pretty things to their
several places, and soon was cracking nuts, and feeling almost
naturally happy for the first time since God for his sins had made him
a prince. When the nuts were all gone, he stumbled upon some
inviting books in a closet, among them one about the etiquette of
the English court. This was a prize. He lay down upon a sumptuous
divan, and proceeded to instruct himself with honest zeal. Let us
leave him there for the present.
CHAPTER VIII
The Question of the Seal
ABOUT five o'clock Henry VIII awoke out of an unrefreshing nap,
and muttered to himself, 'Troublous dreams, troublous dreams! Mine end
is now at hand; so say these warnings, and my failing pulses do
confirm it.' Presently a wicked light flamed up in his eye, and he
muttered, 'Yet will not I die till he go before.'
His attendants perceiving that he was awake, one of them asked his
pleasure concerning the Lord Chancellor, who was waiting without.
'Admit him, admit him!' exclaimed the king eagerly.
The Lord Chancellor entered, and knelt by the king's couch,
saying:
'I have given order, and, according to the king's command, the
peers of the realm, in their robes, do now stand at the bar of the
House, where, having confirmed the Duke of Norfolk's doom, they humbly
wait his majesty's further pleasure in the matter.'
The king's face lit up with a fierce joy. Said he:
'Lift me up! In mine own person will I go before my Parliament,
and with mine own hand will I seal the warrant that rids me of-'
His voice failed; an ashen pallor swept the flush from his cheeks;
and the attendants eased him back upon his pillows, and hurriedly
assisted him with restoratives. Presently he said sorrowfully:
'Alack, how have I longed for this sweet hour! and lo, too late it
cometh, and I am robbed of this so coveted chance. But speed ye, speed
ye! let others do this happy office sith 'tis denied to me. I put my
great seal in commission: choose thou the lords that shall compose it,
and get ye to your work. Speed ye, man! Before the sun shall rise
and set again, bring me his head that I may see it.'
'According to the king's command, so shall it be. Will't please
your majesty to order that the Seal be now restored to me, so that I
may forth upon the business?'
'The Seal! Who keepeth the Seal but thou?'
'Please your majesty, you did take it from me two days since,
saying it should no more do its office till your own royal hand should
use it upon the Duke of Norfolk's warrant.'
'Why, so in sooth I did; I do remember it.... What did I with
it!... I am very feeble.... So oft these days doth my memory play
the traitor with me.... 'Tis strange, strange-'
The king dropped into inarticulate mumblings, shaking his gray
head weakly from time to time, and gropingly trying to recollect
what he had done with the Seal. At last my Lord Hertford ventured to
kneel and offer information-
'Sire, if that I may be so bold, here be several that do
remember with me how that you gave the Great Seal into the hands of
his Highness the Prince of Wales to keep against the day that-'
'True, most true!' interrupted the king. 'Fetch it! Go: time
flieth!'
Lord Hertford flew to Tom, but returned to the king before very
long, troubled and empty-handed. He delivered himself to this effect:
'It grieveth me, my lord the king, to bear so heavy and
unwelcome tidings; but it is the will of God that the prince's
affliction abideth still, and he cannot recall to mind that he
received the Seal. So came I quickly to report, thinking it were waste
of precious time, and little worth withal, that any should attempt
to search the long array of chambers and saloons that belong unto
his royal high-'
A groan from the king interrupted my lord at this point. After a
while his majesty said, with a deep sadness in his tone:
'Trouble him no more, poor child. The hand of God lieth heavy upon
him, and my heart goeth out in loving compassion for him, and sorrow
that I may not bear his burden on mine own old trouble-weighted
shoulders, and so bring him peace.'
He closed his eyes, fell to mumbling, and presently was silent.
After a time he opened his eyes again, and gazed vacantly around until
his glance rested upon the kneeling Lord Chancellor. Instantly his
face flushed with wrath:
'What, thou here yet! By the glory of God, an thou gettest not
about that traitor's business, thy miter shall have holiday the morrow
for lack of a head to grace withal!'
The trembling Chancellor answered:
'Good your majesty, I cry you mercy! I but waited for the Seal.'
'Man, hast lost thy wits? The small Seal which aforetime I was
wont to take with me abroad lieth in my treasury. And, since the Great
Seal hath flown away, shall not it suffice? Hast lost thy wits?
Begone! And hark ye- come no more till thou do bring his head.'
The poor Chancellor was not long in removing himself from this
dangerous vicinity; nor did the commission waste time in giving the
royal assent to the work of the slavish Parliament, and appointing the
morrow for the beheading of the premier peer of England, the
luckless Duke of Norfolk.(5)
CHAPTER IX
The River Pageant
AT nine in the evening the whole vast river-front of the palace
was blazing with light. The river itself, as far as the eye could
reach cityward, was so thickly covered with watermen's boats and
with pleasure barges, all fringed with colored lanterns, and gently
agitated by the waves, that it resembled a glowing and limitless
garden of flowers stirred to soft motion by summer winds. The grand
terrace of stone steps leading down to the water, spacious enough to
mass the army of a German principality upon, was a picture to see,
with its ranks of royal halberdiers in polished armor, and its
troops of brilliantly costumed servitors flitting up and down, and
to and fro, in the hurry of preparation.
Presently a command was given, and immediately all living
creatures vanished from the steps. Now the air was heavy with the hush
of suspense and expectancy. As far as one's vision could carry, he
might see the myriads of people in the boats rise up, and shade
their eyes from the glare of lanterns and torches, and gaze toward the
palace.
A file of forty or fifty state barges drew up to the steps. They
were richly gilt, and their lofty prows and sterns were elaborately
carved. Some of them were decorated with banners and streamers; some
with cloth-of-gold and arras embroidered with coats of arms; others
with silken flags that had numberless little silver bells fastened
to them, which shook out tiny showers of joyous music whenever the
breezes fluttered them; others of yet higher pretensions, since they
belonged to nobles in the prince's immediate service, had their
sides picturesquely fenced with shields gorgeously emblazoned with
armorial bearings. Each state barge was towed by a tender. Besides the
rowers, these tenders carried each a number of men-at-arms in glossy
helmet and breastplate, and a company of musicians.
The advance-guard of the expected procession now appeared in the
great gateway, a troop of halberdiers. 'They were dressed in striped
hose of black and tawny, velvet caps graced at the sides with silver
roses, and doublets of murrey and blue cloth, embroidered on the front
and back with the three feathers, the prince's blazon, woven in
gold. Their halberd staves were covered with crimson velvet,
fastened with gilt nails, and ornamented with gold tassels. Filing off
on the right and left, they formed two long lines, extending from
the gateway of the palace to the water's edge. A thick, rayed cloth or
carpet was then unfolded, and laid down between them by attendants
in the gold-and-crimson liveries of the prince. This done, a
flourish of trumpets resounded from within. A lively prelude arose
from the musicians on the water; and two ushers with white wands
marched with a slow and stately pace from the portal. They were
followed by an officer bearing the civic mace, after whom came another
carrying the city's sword; then several sergeants of the city guard,
in their full accoutrements, and with badges on their sleeves; then
the Garter king-at-arms, in his tabard; then several knights of the
Bath, each with a white lace on his sleeve; then their esquires;
then the judges, in their robes of scarlet and coifs; then the Lord
High Chancellor of England, in a robe of scarlet, open before, and
purfled with minever; then a deputation of aldermen, in their
scarlet cloaks; and then the heads of the different civic companies,
in their robes of state. Now came twelve French gentlemen, in splendid
habiliments, consisting of pourpoints of white damask barred with
gold, short mantles of crimson velvet lined with violet taffeta, and
carnation-colored hauts-de-chausses, and took their way down the
steps. They were of the suite of the French ambassador, and were
followed by twelve cavaliers of the suite of the Spanish ambassador,
clothed in black velvet, unrelieved by any ornament. Following these
came several great English nobles with their attendants.'
There was a flourish of trumpets within; and the prince's uncle,
the future great Duke of Somerset, emerged from the gateway, arrayed
in a 'doublet of black cloth-of-gold, and a cloak of crimson satin
flowered with gold, and ribanded with nets of silver.' He turned,
doffed his plumed cap, bent his body in a low reverence, and began
to step backward, bowing at each step. A prolonged trumpet-blast
followed, and a proclamation, 'Way for the high and mighty, the Lord
Edward, Prince of Wales!' High aloft on the palace walls a long line
of red tongues of flame leaped forth with a thunder-crash; the
massed world on the river burst into a mighty roar of welcome; and Tom
Canty, the cause and hero of it all, stepped into view, and slightly
bowed his princely head.
He was 'magnificently habited in a doublet of white satin, with
a front-piece of purple cloth-of-tissue, powdered with diamonds, and
edged with ermine. Over this he wore a mantle of white
cloth-of-gold, pounced with the triple-feather crest, lined with
blue satin, set with pearls and precious stones, and fastened with a
clasp of brilliants. About his neck hung the order of the Garter,
and several princely foreign orders'; and wherever light fell upon him
jewels responded with a blinding flash. O, Tom Canty, born in a hovel,
bred in the gutters of London, familiar with rags and dirt and misery,
what a spectacle is this!
CHAPTER X
The Prince in the Toils
WE left John Canty dragging the rightful prince into Offal
Court, with a noisy and delighted mob at his heels. There was but
one person in it who offered a pleading word for the captive, and he
was not heeded; he was hardly even heard, so great was the turmoil.
The prince continued to struggle for freedom, and to rage against
the treatment he was suffering, until John Canty lost what little
patience was left in him, and raised his oaken cudgel in a sudden fury
over the prince's head. The single pleader for the lad sprang to
stop the man's arm, and the blow descended upon his own wrist. Canty
roared out:
'Thou'lt meddle, wilt thou? Then have thy reward.'
His cudgel crashed down upon the meddler's head; there was a
groan, a dim form sank to the ground among the feet of the crowd,
and the next moment it lay there in the dark alone. The mob pressed
on, their enjoyment nothing disturbed by this episode.
Presently the prince found himself in John Canty's abode, with the
door closed against the outsiders. By the vague light of a tallow
candle which was thrust into a bottle, he made out the main features
of the loathsome den, and also of the occupants of it. Two frowsy
girls and a middle-aged woman cowered against the wall in one
corner, with the aspect of animals habituated to harsh usage, and
expecting and dreading it now. From another corner stole a withered
hag with streaming gray hair and malignant eyes. John Canty said to
this one:
'Tarry! There's fine mummeries here. Mar them not till thou'st
enjoyed them; then let thy hand be heavy as thou wilt. Stand forth,
lad. Now say thy foolery again, an thou'st not forget it. Name thy
name. Who art thou?'
The insulted blood mounted to the little prince's cheek once more,
and he lifted a steady and indignant gaze to the man's face, and said:
''Tis but ill-breeding in such as thou to command me to speak. I
tell thee now, as I told thee before, I am Edward, Prince of Wales,
and none other.'
The stunning surprise of this reply nailed the hag's feet to the
floor where she stood, and almost took her breath. She stared at the
prince in stupid amazement, which so amused her ruffianly son that
he burst into a roar of laughter. But the effect upon Tom Canty's
mother and sisters was different. Their dread of bodily injury gave
way at once to distress of a different sort. They ran forward with woe
and dismay in their faces, exclaiming:
'Oh, poor Tom, poor lad!'
The mother fell on her knees before the prince, put her hands upon
his shoulders, and gazed yearningly into his face through her rising
tears. Then she said:
'Oh, my poor boy! thy foolish reading hath wrought its woeful work
at last, and ta'en thy wit away. Ah! why didst thou cleave to it
when I so warned thee 'gainst it? Thou'st broke thy mother's heart.'
The prince looked into her face, and said gently:
'Thy son is well and hath not lost his wits, good dame. Comfort
thee; let me to the palace where he is, and straightway will the
king my father restore him to thee.'
'The king thy father! Oh, my child! unsay these words that be
freighted with death for thee, and ruin for all that be near to
thee. Shake off this gruesome dream. Call back thy poor wandering
memory. Look upon me. Am not I thy mother that bore thee, and loveth
thee?'
The prince shook his head, and reluctantly said:
'God knoweth I am loath to grieve thy heart; but truly have I
never looked upon thy face before.'
The woman sank back to a sitting posture on the floor, and,
covering her eyes with her hands, gave way to heartbroken sobs and
wailings.
'Let the show go on!' shouted Canty. 'What, Nan! what, Bet!
Mannerless wenches! will ye stand in the prince's presence? Upon
your knees, ye pauper scum, and do him reverence!'
He followed this with another horse-laugh. The girls began to
plead timidly for their brother; and Nan said:
'An thou wilt but let him to bed, father, rest and sleep will heal
his madness; prithee, do.'
'Do, father,' said Bet; 'he is more worn than is his wont.
To-morrow will he be himself again, and will beg with diligence, and
come not empty home again.'
This remark sobered the father's joviality, and brought his mind
to business. He turned angrily upon the prince, and said:
'The morrow must we pay two pennies to him that owns this hole;
two pennies mark ye- all this money for a half-year's rent, else out
of this we go. Show what thou'st gathered with thy lazy begging.'
The prince said:
'Offend me not with thy sordid matters. I tell thee again I am the
king's son.'
A sounding blow upon the prince's shoulder from Canty's broad palm
sent him staggering into good-wife Canty's arms, who clasped him to
her breast, and sheltered him from a pelting rain of cuffs and slaps
by interposing her own person.
The frightened girls retreated to their corner; but the
grandmother stepped eagerly forward to assist her son. The prince
sprang away from Mrs. Canty, exclaiming:
'Thou shalt not suffer for me, madam. Let these swine do their
will upon me alone.'
This speech infuriated the swine to such a degree that they set
about their work without waste of time. Between them they belabored
the boy right soundly, and then gave the girls and their mother a
beating for showing sympathy for the victim.
'Now,' said Canty, 'to bed, all of ye. The entertainment has tired
me.'
The light was put out, and the family retired. As soon as the
snorings of the head of the house and his mother showed that they were
asleep, the young girls crept to where the prince lay, and covered him
tenderly from the cold with straw and rags; and their mother crept
to him also, and stroked his hair, and cried over him, whispering
broken words of comfort and compassion in his ear the while. She had
saved a morsel for him to eat also; but the boy's pains had swept away
all appetite- at least for black and tasteless crusts. He was
touched by her brave and costly defense of him, and by her
commiseration; and he thanked her in very noble and princely words,
and begged her to go to sleep and try to forget her sorrows. And he
added that the king his father would not let her loyal kindness and
devotion go unrewarded. This return to his 'madness' broke her heart
anew, and she strained him to her breast again and again and then went
back, drowned in tears, to her bed.
As she lay thinking and mourning, the suggestion began to creep
into her mind that there was an undefinable something about this boy
that was lacking in Tom Canty, mad or sane. She could not describe it,
she could not tell just what it was, and yet her sharp mother-instinct
seemed to detect it and perceive it. What if the boy were really not
her son, after all? Oh, absurd! She almost smiled at the idea, spite
of her griefs and troubles. No matter, she found that it was an idea
that would not 'down', but persisted in haunting her. It pursued
her, it harassed her, it clung to her, and refused to be put away or
ignored. At last she perceived that there was not going to be any
peace for her until she should devise a test that should prove, dearly
and without question, whether this lad was her son or not, and so
banish these wearing and worrying doubts. Ah, yes, this was plainly
the right way out of the difficulty; therefore, she set her wits to
work at once to contrive that test. But it was an easier thing to
propose than to accomplish. She turned over in her mind one
promising test after another, but was obliged to relinquish them
all- none of them were absolutely sure, absolutely perfect; and an
imperfect one could not satisfy her. Evidently she was racking her
head in vain- it seemed manifest that she must give the matter up.
While this depressing thought was passing through her mind, her ear
caught the regular breathing of the boy, and she knew he had fallen
asleep. And while she listened, the measured breathing was broken by a
soft, startled cry, such as one utters in a troubled dream. This
chance occurrence furnished her instantly with a plan worth all her
labored tests combined. She at once set herself feverishly, but
noiselessly, to work to relight her candle, muttering to herself, 'Had
I but seen him then, I should have known! Since that day, when he
was little, that the powder burst in his face, he hath never been
startled of a sudden out of his dreams or out of his thinkings, but he
hath cast his hand before his eyes, even as he did that day, and not
as others would do it, with the palm inward, but always with the
palm turned outward- I have seen it a hundred times, and it hath never
varied nor ever failed. Yes, I shall soon know now!'
By this time she had crept to the slumbering boy's side, with
the candle shaded in her hand. She bent heedfully and warily over him,
scarcely breathing, in her suppressed excitement, and suddenly flashed
the light in his face and struck the floor by his ear with her
knuckles. The sleeper's eyes sprung wide open, and he cast a
startled stare about him- but he made no special movement with his
hands.
The poor woman was smitten almost helpless with surprise and
grief; but she contrived to hide her emotions, and to soothe the boy
to sleep again; then she crept apart and communed miserably with
herself upon the disastrous result of her experiment. She tried to
believe that her Tom's madness had banished this habitual gesture of
his; but she could not do it. 'No,' she said, 'his hands are not
mad, they could not unlearn so old a habit in so brief a time. Oh,
this is a heavy day for me!'
Still, hope was as stubborn now as doubt had been before; she
could not bring herself to accept the verdict of the test; she must
try the thing again- the failure must have been only an accident; so
she startled the boy out of his sleep a second and a third time, at
intervals- with the same result which had marked the first test-
then she dragged herself to bed, and fell sorrowfully asleep,
saying, 'But I cannot give him up- oh, no, I cannot- he must be my
boy!'
The poor mother's interruptions having ceased, and the prince's
pains having gradually lost their power to disturb him, utter
weariness at last sealed his eyes in a profound and restful sleep.
Hour after hour slipped away, and still he slept like the dead. Thus
four or five hours passed. Then his stupor began to lighten.
Presently, while half asleep and half awake, he murmured:
'Sir William!'
After a moment:
'Ho, Sir William Herbert! Hie thee hither, and list to the
strangest dream that ever.... Sir William! Dost hear? Man, I did think
me changed to a pauper, and... Ho there! Guards! Sir William! What! is
there no groom of the chamber in waiting? Alack it shall go hard
with-'
'What aileth thee?' asked a whisper near him. 'Who art thou
calling?'
'Sir William Herbert. Who art thou?'
'I? Who should I be, but thy sister Nan? Oh, Tom, I had forgot!
Tbou'rt mad yet- poor lad thou'rt mad yet, would I had never woke to
know it again! But, prithee, master thy tongue, lest we be all
beaten till we die!'
The startled prince sprang partly up, but a sharp reminder from
his stiffened bruises brought him to himself, and he sunk back among
his foul straw with a moan and the ejaculation:
'Alas, it was no dream, then!'
In a moment all the heavy sorrow and misery which sleep had
banished were upon him again, and he realized that he was no longer
a petted prince in a palace, with the adoring eyes of a nation upon
him, but a pauper, an outcast, clothed in rags, prisoner in a den
fit only for beasts, and consorting with beggars and thieves.
In the midst of his grief he began to be conscious of hilarious
noises and shoutings, apparently but a block or two away. The next
moment there were several sharp raps at the door; John Canty ceased
from snoring and said:
'Who knocketh? What wilt thou?'
A voice answered:
'Know'st thou who it was thou laid thy cudgel on?'
'No. Neither know I, nor care.'
'Belike thou'lt change thy note eftsoons. An thou would save thy
neck, nothing but flight may stead thee. The man is this moment
delivering up the ghost. 'Tis the priest, Father Andrew!'
'God-a-mercy!' exclaimed Canty. He roused his family, and hoarsely
commanded, 'Up with ye all and fly- or bide where ye are and perish!'
Scarcely five minutes later the Canty household were in the street
and flying for their lives. John Canty held the prince by the wrist,
and hurried him along the dark way, giving him this caution in a low
voice:
'Mind thy tongue, thou mad fool, and speak not our name. I will
choose me a new name, speedily, to throw the law's dogs off the scent.
Mind thy tongue, I tell thee!'
He growled these words to the rest of the family:
'If it so chance that we be separated, let each make for London
Bridge; whoso findeth himself as far as the last linen-draper's shop
on the bridge, let him tarry there till the others be come, then
will we flee into Southwark together.'
At this moment the party burst suddenly out of darkness into
light; and not only into light, but into the midst of a multitude of
singing, dancing, and shouting people, massed together on the
river-frontage. There was a line of bonfires stretching as far as
one could see, up and down the Thames; London Bridge was
illuminated; Southwark Bridge likewise; the entire river was aglow
with the flash and sheen of colored lights, and constant explosions of
fireworks filled the skies with an intricate commingling of shooting
splendors and a thick rain of dazzling sparks that almost turned night
into day; everywhere were crowds of revelers; all London seemed to
be at large.
John Canty delivered himself of a furious curse and commanded a
retreat; but it was too late. He and his tribe were swallowed up in
that swarming hive of humanity, and hopelessly separated from each
other in an instant. We are not considering that the prince was one of
his tribe; Canty still kept his grip upon him. The prince's heart
was beating high with hopes of escape now. A burly waterman,
considerably exalted with liquor, found himself rudely shoved by Canty
in his efforts to plow through the crowd; he laid his great hand on
Canty's shoulder and said:
'Nay, whither so fast, friend? Dost canker thy soul with sordid
business when all that be leal men and true make holiday?'
'Mine affairs are mine own, they concern thee not,' answered
Canty, roughly; 'take away thy hand and let me pass.'
'Sith that is thy humor, thou'lt not pass till thou'st drunk to
the Prince of Wales, I tell thee that,' said the waterman, barring the
way resolutely.
'Give me the cup, then, and make speed, make speed.'
Other revelers were interested by this time. They cried out:
'The loving-cup, the loving-cup! make the sour knave drink the
loving-cup, else will we feed him to the fishes.'
So a huge loving-cup was brought; the waterman, grasping it by one
of its handles, and with his other hand bearing up the end of an
imaginary napkin, presented it in due and ancient form to Canty, who
had to grasp the opposite handle with one of his hands and take off
the lid with the other, according to ancient custom.(6) This left the
prince hand-free for a second, of course. He wasted no time, but dived
among the forest of legs about him and disappeared. In another
moment he could not have been harder to find, under that tossing sea
of life, if its billows had been the Atlantic's and he a lost
sixpence.
He very soon realized this fact, and straightway busied himself
about his own affairs without further thought of John Canty. He
quickly realized another thing, too. To wit, that a spurious Prince of
Wales was being feasted by the city in his stead. He easily
concluded that the pauper lad, Tom Canty, had deliberately taken
advantage of his stupendous opportunity and become a usurper.
Therefore there was but one course to pursue- find his way to
the Guildhall, make himself known, and denounce the impostor. He
also made up his mind that Tom should be allowed a reasonable time for
spiritual preparation, and then be hanged, drawn, and quartered,
according to the law and usage of the day, in cases of high treason.
CHAPTER XI
At Guildhall
THE royal barge, attended by its gorgeous fleet, took its
stately way down the Thames through the wilderness of illuminated
boats. The air was laden with music; the river-banks were beruffled
with joy- flames; the distant city lay in a soft luminous glow from
its countless invisible bonfires; above it rose many a slender spire
into the sky, incrusted with sparkling lights, wherefore in their
remoteness they seemed like jeweled lances thrust aloft; as the
fleet swept along, it was greeted from the banks with a continuous
hoarse roar of cheers and the ceaseless flash and boom of artillery.
To Tom Canty, half buried in his silken cushions, these sounds and
this spectacle were a wonder unspeakably sublime and astonishing. To
his little friends at his side, the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady
Jane Grey, they were nothing.
Arrived at the Dowgate, the fleet was towed up the limpid Walbrook
(whose channel has now been for two centuries buried out of sight
under acres of buildings) to Bucklersbury, past houses and under
bridges populous with merry-makers and brilliantly lighted, and at
last came to a halt in a basin where now is Barge Yard, in the
center of the ancient city of London. Tom disembarked, and he and
his gallant procession crossed Cheapside and made a short march
through the Old Jewry and Basinghall Street to the Guildhall.
Tom and his little ladies were received with due ceremony by the
Lord Mayor and the Fathers of the City, in their gold chains and
scarlet robes of state, and conducted to a rich canopy of state at the
head of the great hall, preceded by heralds making proclamation, and
by the Mace and the City Sword. The lords and ladies who were to
attend upon Tom and his two small friends took their places behind
their chairs.
At a lower table the court grandees and other guests of noble
degree were seated, with the magnates of the city; the commoners
took places at a multitude of tables on the main floor of the hall.
From their lofty vantage-ground, the giants Gog and Magog, the ancient
guardians of the city, contemplated the spectacle below them with eyes
grown familar to it in forgotten generations. There was a
bugle-blast and a proclamation, and a fat butler appeared in a high
perch in the leftward wall, followed by his servitors bearing with
impressive solemnity a royal Baron of Beef, smoking hot and ready
for the knife.
After grace, Tom (being instructed) rose- and the whole house with
him- and drank from a portly golden loving-cup with the Princess
Elizabeth; from her it passed to the Lady Jane, and then traversed the
general assemblage. So the banquet began.
By midnight the revelry was at its height. Now came one of those
picturesque spectacles so admired in that old day. A description of it
is still extant in the quaint wording of a chronicler who witnessed
it:
'Space being made, presently entered a baron and an earl appareled
after the Turkish fashion in long robes of bawdkin powdered with gold;
hats on their heads of crimson velvet, with great rolls of gold,
girded with two swords, called simitars, hanging by great bawdricks of
gold. Next came yet another baron and another earl, in two long
gowns of yellow satin, traversed with white satin, and in every bend
of white was a bend of crimson satin, after the fashion of Russia,
with furred hats of gray on their heads; either of them having an
hatchet in their hands, and boots with pykes' (points a foot long),
'turned up. And after them came a knight, then the Lord High
Admiral, and with him five nobles, in doublets of crimson velvet,
voyded low on the back and before to the cannel-bone, laced on the
breasts with chains of silver; and, over that, short cloaks of crimson
satin, and on their heads hats after the dancers' fashion, with
pheasants' feather in them. These were appareled after the fashion
of Prussia. The torch-bearers, which were about an hundred, were
appareled in crimson satin and green, like Moors, their faces black.
Next came in a mommarye. Then the minstrels, which were disguised,
danced; and the lords and ladies did wildly dance also, that it was
a pleasure to behold.'
And while Tom, in his high seat, was gazing upon this 'wild'
dancing, lost in admiration of the dazzling commingling of
kaleidoscopic colors which the whirling turmoil of gaudy figures below
him presented, the ragged but real Little Prince of Wales was
proclaiming his rights and his wrongs, denouncing the impostor, and
clamoring for admission at the gates of Guildhall! The crowd enjoyed
this episode prodigiously, and pressed forward and craned their
necks to see the small rioter. Presently they began to taunt him and
mock at him, purposely to goad him into a higher and still more
entertaining fury. Tears of mortification sprung to his eyes, but he
stood his ground and defied the mob right royally. Other taunts
followed, added mockings stung him, and he exclaimed:
'I tell ye again, you pack of unmannerly curs, I am the Prince
of Wales! And all forlorn and friendless as I be, with none to give me
word of grace or help me in my need, yet will not I be driven from
my ground, but will maintain it!'
'Though thou be prince or no prince 'tis all one, thou be'st a
gallant lad, and not friendless neither! Here stand I by thy side to
prove it; and mind I tell thee thou might'st have a worser friend than
Miles Hendon and yet not tire thy legs with seeking. Rest thy small
jaw, my child, I talk the language of these base kennel-rats like to a
very native.'
The speaker was a sort of Don Caesar de Bazan in dress, aspect,
and bearing. He was tall, trim-built, muscular. His doublet and trunks
were of rich material, but faded and threadbare, and their gold-lace
adornments were sadly tarnished; his ruff was rumpled and damaged; the
plume in his slouched hat was broken and had a bedraggled and
disreputable look; at his side he wore a long rapier in a rusty iron
sheath; his swaggering carriage marked him at once as a ruffler of the
camp. The speech of this fantastic figure was received with an
explosion of jeers and laughter. Some cried, ''Tis another prince in
disguise!' ''Ware thy tongue, friend, belike he is dangerous!' 'Marry,
he looketh it- mark his eye!' 'Pluck the lad from him- to the
horse-pond wi' the cub!'
Instantly a hand was laid upon the prince, under the impulse of
this happy thought; as instantly the stranger's long sword was out and
the meddler went to the earth under a sounding thump with the flat
of it. The next moment a score of voices shouted 'Kill the dog! kill
him! kill him!' and the mob closed in on the warrior, who backed
himself against a wall and began to lay about him with his long weapon
like a madman. His victims sprawled this way and that, but the
mob-tide poured over their prostrate forms and dashed itself against
the champion with undiminished fury. His moments seemed numbered,
his destruction certain, when suddenly a trumpet-blast sounded, a
voice shouted, 'Way for the king's messenger!' and a troop of horsemen
came charging down upon the mob, who fled out of harm's reach as
fast as their legs could carry them. The bold stranger caught up the
prince in his arms, and was soon far away from danger and the
multitude.
Return we within the Guildhall. Suddenly, high above the
jubilant roar and thunder of the revel, broke the clear peal of a
bugle-note. There was instant silence- a deep hush; then a single
voice rose- that of the messenger from the palace- and began to pipe
forth a proclamation, the whole multitude standing, listening. The
closing words, solemnly pronounced were:
'The king is dead!'
The great assemblage bent their heads upon their breasts with
one accord; remained so, in profound silence, a few moments, then
all sunk upon their knees in a body, stretched out their hands towards
Tom, and a mighty shout burst forth that seemed to shake the building:
'Long live the king!'
Poor Tom's dazed eyes wandered abroad over this stupefying
spectacle, and finally rested dreamily upon the kneeling princesses
beside him a moment, then upon the Earl of Hertford. A sudden
purpose dawned in his face. He said, in a low tone, at Lord Hertford's
ear:
'Answer me truly, on thy faith and honor! Uttered I here a
command, the which none but a king might hold privilege and
prerogative to utter, would such commandment be obeyed, and none
rise up to say me nay?'
'None, my liege, in all these realms. In thy person bides the
majesty of England. Thou art the king- thy word is law.'
Tom responded, in a strong, earnest voice, and with great
animation:
'Then shall the king's law be law of mercy, from this day, and
never more be law of blood! Up from thy knees and away! To the Tower
and say the king decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not die!'(7)
The words were caught up and carried eagerly from lip to lip far
and wide over the hall, and as Hertford hurried from the presence,
another prodigious shout burst forth:
'The reign of blood is ended! Long live Edward king of England!'
CHAPTER XII
The Prince and his Deliverer
AS soon as Miles Hendon and the little prince were clear of the
mob, they struck down through back lanes and alleys toward the
river. Their way was unobstructed until they approached London Bridge;
then they plowed into the multitude again, Hendon keeping a fast
grip upon the prince's- no, the king's- wrist. The tremendous news was
already abroad, and the boy learned it from a thousand voices at once-
'The king is dead!' The tidings struck a chill to the heart of the
poor little waif, and sent a shudder through his frame. He realized
the greatness of his loss, and was filled with a bitter grief; for the
grim tyrant who had been such a terror to others had always been
gentle with him. The tears sprung to his eyes and blurred all objects.
For an instant he felt himself the most forlorn, outcast, and forsaken
of God's creatures- then another cry shook the night with its
far-reaching thunders: 'Long live King Edward the Sixth!' and this
made his eyes kindle, and thrilled him with pride to his fingers'
ends. 'Ah,' he thought, 'how grand and strange it seems- I AM KING!'
Our friends threaded their way slowly through the throngs upon the
Bridge. This structure, which had stood for six hundred years, and had
been a noisy and populous thoroughfare all that time, was a curious
affair, for a closely packed rank of stores and shops, with family
quarters overhead, stretched along both sides of it, from one bank
of the river to the other. The Bridge was a sort of town to itself; it
had its inn, its beerhouses, its bakeries, its haberdasheries, its
food markets, its manufacturing industries, and even its church. It
looked upon the two neighbors which it linked together- London and
Southwark- as being well enough, as suburbs, but not otherwise
particularly important. It was a close corporation, so to speak; it
was a narrow town, of a single street a fifth of a mile long, its
population was but a village population, and everybody in it knew
all his fellow-townsmen intimately, and had known their fathers and
mothers before them- and all their little family affairs into the
bargain. It had its aristocracy, of course- its fine old families of
butchers, and bakers, and what not, who had occupied the same old
premises for five or six hundred years, and knew the great history
of the Bridge from beginning to end, and all its strange legends;
and who always talked bridgy talk, and thought bridgy thoughts, and
lied in a long, level, direct, substantial bridgy way. It was just the
sort of population to be narrow and ignorant and self-conceited.
Children were born on the Bridge, were reared there, grew to old age
and finally died without ever having set a foot upon any part of the
world but London Bridge alone. Such people would naturally imagine
that the mighty and interminable procession which moved through its
street night and day, with its confused roar of shouts and cries,
its neighings and bellowings and bleatings and its muffled
thunder-tramp, was the one great thing in this world, and themselves
somehow the proprietors of it. And so they were in effect- at least
they could exhibit it from their windows, and did- for a
consideration- whenever a returning king or hero gave it a fleeting
splendor, for there was no place like it for affording a long,
straight, uninterrupted view of marching columns.
Men born and reared upon the Bridge found life unendurably dull
and inane elsewhere. History tells of one of these who left the Bridge
at the age of seventy-one and retired to the country. But he could
only fret and toss in his bed; he could not go to sleep, the deep
stillness was so painful, so awful, so oppressive. When he was worn
out with it, at last, he fled back to his old home, a lean and haggard
specter, and fell peacefully to rest and pleasant dreams under the
lulling music of the lashing waters and the boom and crash and thunder
of London Bridge.
In the times of which we are writing, the Bridge furnished 'object
lessons' in English history, for its children- namely, the livid and
decaying heads of renowned men impaled upon iron spikes atop of its
gateways. But we digress.
Hendon's lodgings were in the little inn on the Bridge. As he
neared the door with his small friend, a rough voice said:
'So, thou'rt come at last! Thou'lt not escape again. I warrant
thee; and if pounding thy bones to a pudding can teach thee
somewhat, thou'lt not keep us waiting another time, mayhap'- and
John Canty put out his hand to seize the boy.
Miles Hendon stepped in the way, and said:
'Not too fast, friend. Thou art needlessly rough, methinks. What
is the lad to thee?'
'If it be any business of thine to make and meddle in others'
affairs, he is my son.'
''Tis a lie!' cried the little king, hotly.
'Boldly said, and I believe thee, whether thy small head-piece
be sound or cracked, my boy. But whether this scurvy ruffian be thy
father or no, 'tis all one, he shall not have thee to beat thee and
abuse, according to his threat, so thou prefer to abide with me.'
'I do, I do- I know him not, I loathe him, and will die before I
will go with him.'
'Then 'tis settled, and there is naught more to say.'
'We will see, as to that!' exclaimed John Canty, striding past
Hendon to get at the boy; 'by force shall he-'
'If thou do but touch him, thou animated offal, I will spit thee
like a goose!' said Hendon, barring the way and laying his hand upon
his sword-hilt. Canty drew back. 'Now mark ye,' continued Hendon, 'I
took this lad under my protection when a mob such as thou would have
mishandled him, mayhap killed him; dost imagine I will desert him
now to a worser fate?- for whether thou art his father or no- and
sooth to say, I think it is a lie- a decent swift death were better
for such a lad than life in such brute hands as thine. So go thy ways,
and set quick about it, for I like not much bandying of words, being
not overpatient in my nature.'
John Canty moved off, muttering threats and curses, and was
swallowed from sight in the crowd. Hendon ascended three flights of
stairs to his room, with his charge, after ordering a meal to be
sent thither. It was a poor apartment, with a shabby bed and some odds
and ends of old furniture in it, and was vaguely lighted by a couple
of sickly candles. The little king dragged himself to the bed and
lay down upon it, almost exhausted with hunger and fatigue. He had
been on his feet a good part of a day and a night, for it was now
two or three o'clock in the morning, and had eaten nothing meantime.
He murmured drowsily:
'Prithee, call me when the table is spread,' and sunk into a
deep sleep immediately.
A smile twinkled in Hendon's eye, and he said to himself:
'By the mass, the little beggar takes to one's quarters and usurps
one's bed with as natural and easy a grace as if he owned them- with
never a by-your-leave or so-please-it-you, or anything of the sort. In
his diseased ravings he called himself the Prince of Wales, and
bravely doth he keep up the character. Poor little friendless rat,
doubtless his mind has been disordered with ill usage. Well, I will be
his friend; I have saved him, and it draweth me strongly to him;
already I love the bold-tongued little rascal. How soldierlike he
faced the smutty rabble and flung back his high defiance! And what a
comely, sweet and gentle face he hath, now that sleep hath conjured
away its troubles and its griefs. I will teach him, I will cure his
malady; yea, I will be his elder brother, and care for him and watch
over him; and who so would shame him or do him hurt, may order his
shroud, for though I be burnt for it he shall need it!'
He bent over the boy and contemplated him with kind and pitying
interest, tapping the young cheek tenderly and smoothing back the
tangled curls with his great brown hand. A slight shiver passed over
the boy's form. Hendon muttered:
'See, now, how like a man it was to let him lie here uncovered and
fill his body with deadly rheums. Now what shall I do? 'Twill wake him
to take him up and put him within the bed, and he sorely needeth
sleep.'
He looked about for extra covering, but finding none, doffed his
doublet and wrapped the lad in it, saying, 'I am used to nipping air
and scant apparel, 'tis little I shall mind the cold'- then walked
up and down the room to keep his blood in motion, soliloquizing as
before.
'His injured mind persuades him he is Prince of Wales; 'twill be
odd to have a Prince of Wales still with us, now that he that was
the prince is prince no more, but king- for this poor mind is set upon
the one fantasy, and will not reason out that now it should cast by
the prince and call itself the king.... If my father liveth still,
after these seven years that I have heard naught from home in my
foreign dungeon, he will welcome the poor lad and give him generous
shelter for my sake; so will my good elder brother, Arthur; my other
brother, Hugh- but I will crack his crown, an he interfere, the
fox-hearted, ill-conditioned animal! Yes, thither will we fare- and
straightway, too.'
A servant entered with a smoking meal, disposed it upon a small
deal table, placed the chairs, and took his departure, leaving such
cheap lodgers as these to wait upon themselves. The door slammed after
him, and the noise woke the boy, who sprung to a sitting posture,
and shot a glad glance about him; then a grieved look came into his
face and he murmured to himself, with a deep sigh, 'Alack, it was
but a dream. Woe is me.' Next he noticed Miles Hendon's doublet-
glanced from that to Hendon, comprehended the sacrifice that had
been made for him, and said, gently:
'Thou art good to me, yes, thou art very good to me. Take it and
put it on- I shall not need it more.'
Then he got up and walked to the washstand in the corner, and
stood there waiting. Hendon said in a cheery voice:
'We'll have a right hearty sup and bite now, for everything is
savory and smoking hot, and that and thy nap together will make thee a
little man again, never fear!'
The boy made no answer, but bent a steady look, that was filled
with grave surprise, and also somewhat touched with impatience, upon
the tall knight of the sword. Hendon was puzzled, and said:
'What's amiss?'
'Good sir, I would wash me.'
'Oh, is that all! Ask no permission of Miles Hendon for aught thou
cravest. Make thyself perfectly free here and welcome, with all that
are his belongings.'
Still the boy stood, and moved not; more, he tapped the floor once
or twice with his small impatient foot. Hendon was wholly perplexed.
Said he:
'Bless us, what is it?'
'Prithee, pour the water, and make not so many words!'
Hendon, suppressing a horse-laugh, and saying to himself, 'By
all the saints, but this is admirable!' stepped briskly forward and
did the small insolent's bidding; then stood by, in a sort of
stupefaction, until the command, 'Come- the towel!' woke him sharply
up. He took up a towel from under the boy's nose and handed it to him,
without comment. He now proceeded to comfort his own face with a wash,
and while he was at it his adopted child seated himself at the table
and prepared to fall to. Hendon despatched his ablutions with
alacrity, then drew back the other chair and was about to place
himself at table, when the boy said, indignantly:
'Forbear! Wouldst sit in the presence of the king?'
This blow staggered Hendon to his foundations. He muttered to
himself, 'Lo, the poor thing's madness is up with the time! it hath
changed with the great change that is come to the realm, and now in
fancy is he king! Good lack, I must humor the conceit, too- there is
no other way- faith, he would order me to the Tower, else!'
And pleased with this jest, he removed the chair from the table,
took his stand behind the king, and proceeded to wait upon him in
the courtliest way he was capable of.
When the king ate, the rigor of his royal dignity relaxed a
little, and with his growing contentment came a desire to talk. He
said:
'I think thou callest thyself Miles Hendon, if I heard thee
aright?'
'Yes, sire,' Miles replied then observed to himself, 'If I must
humor the poor lad's madness, I must sire him, I must majesty him, I
must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the
part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable
and kindly cause.'
The king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said:
'I would know thee- tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with
thee, and a noble- art nobly born?'
'We are of the tail of the nobility, good your majesty. My
father is a baronet- one of the smaller lords, by knight
service(8)- Sir Richard Hendon, of Hendon Hall, by Monk's Holm in
Kent.'
'The name has escaped my memory. Go on- tell me thy story.'
''Tis not much, your majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short
half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very
rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a
boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his
father's; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous,
treacherous, vicious, underhanded- a reptile. Such was he from the
cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him- a ripe rascal
at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none
other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin- she was sixteen, then-
beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her
race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her
guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to
Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the
contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of
good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together
would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady
Edith's fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved-
but then 'twas his way, alway, to say one thing and mean the other.
But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but
none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and
believed him; for he was the youngest child and others hated him-
these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent's dearest
love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of
lying- and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind
affection to cozen itself. I was wild- in troth I might go yet farther
and say very wild, though 'twas a wildness of an innocent sort,
since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in
it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine
honorable degree.
'Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account- he
seeing that our brother Arthur's health was but indifferent, and
hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path-
so- but 'twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the
telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults
and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken
ladder in mine apartments- conveyed thither by his own means- and
did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants
and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and
marry with her, in rank defiance of his will.
'Three years of banishment from home and England might make a
soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of
wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars,
tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in
my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that
have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harbored me.
Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither
straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment,
and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have
wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir,
my meager tale is told.'
'Thou hast been shamefully abused!' said the little king, with a
flashing eye. 'But I will right thee- by the cross will I! The king
hath said it.'
Then, fired by the story of Miles's wrongs, he loosed his tongue
and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears
of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to
himself.
'Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily this is no common mind;
else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a
tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this
curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend
or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my
side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!-
aye, made whole and sound- then will he make himself a name- and proud
shall I be to say, "Yes, he is mine- I took him, a homeless little
ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be
heard some day- behold him, observe him- was I right?"'
The king spoke- in a thoughtful, measured voice:
'Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my
crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so
it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine.'
This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He
was about to thank the king and put the matter aside with saying he
bad only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came
into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and
consider the gracious offer- an idea which the king gravely
approved, remarking that it was best to be not too hasty with a
thing of such great import.
Miles reflected during some moments, then said to himself, 'Yes,
that is the thing to do- by any other means it were impossible to
get at it- and certes, this hour's experience has taught me 'twould be
most wearing and inconvenient to continue it as it is. Yes, I will
propose it; 'twas a happy accident that I did not throw the chance
away.' Then he dropped upon one knee and said:
'My poor service went not beyond the limit of a subject's simple
duty, and therefore hath no merit; but since your majesty is pleased
to hold it worthy some reward, I take heart of grace to make
petition to this effect. Near four hundred years ago, as your grace
knoweth, there being ill blood betwixt John, king of England, and
the king of France, it was decreed that two champions should fight
together in the lists, and so settle the dispute by what is called the
arbitrament of God. These two kings, and the Spanish king, being
assembled to witness and judge the conflict, the French champion
appeared; but so redoubtable was he that our English knights refused
to measure weapons with him. So the matter, which was a weighty one,
was like to go against the English monarch by default. Now in the
Tower lay the Lord de Courcy, the mightiest arm in England, stripped
of his honors and possessions, and wasting with long captivity. Appeal
was made to him; he gave assent, and came forth arrayed for battle;
but no sooner did the Frenchman glimpse his huge frame and hear his
famous name but he fled away, and the French king's cause was lost.
King John restored De Courcy's titles and possessions, and said, "Name
thy wish and thou shalt have it, though it cost me half my kingdom";
whereat De Courcy, kneeling, as I do now, made answerer, "This,
then, I ask, my liege; that I and my successors may have and hold
the privilege of remaining covered in the presence of the kings of
England, henceforth while the throne shall last." The boon was
granted, as your majesty knoweth; and there hath been no time, these
four hundred years, that that line has failed of an heir; and so, even
unto this day, the head of that ancient house still weareth his hat or
helm before the king's majesty, without let or hindrance, and this
none other may do.(9) Invoking this precedent in aid of my prayer,
I beseech the king to grant to me but this one grace and privilege- to
my more than sufficient reward- and none other, to wit: that I and
my heirs, forever, may sit in the presence of the majesty of England!'
'Rise, Sir Miles Hendon, knight,' said the king, gravely- giving
the accolade with Hendon's sword- 'rise, and seat thyself. Thy
petition is granted. While England remains, and the crown continues,
the privilege shall not lapse.'
His majesty walked apart, musing, and Hendon dropped into a
chair at table, observing to himself, ''Twas a brave thought, and hath
wrought me a mighty deliverance; my legs are grievously wearied. An
I had not thought of that, I must have had to stand for weeks, till my
poor lad's wits are cured.' After a little he went on, 'And so I am
become a knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows! A most odd and
strange position, truly, for one so matter-of-fact as I. I will not
laugh- no, God forbid, for this thing which is so substanceless to
me is real to him. And to me, also, in one way, it is not a falsity,
for it reflects with truth the sweet and generous spirit that is in
him.' After a pause: 'Ah, what if he should call me by my fine title
before folk!- there'd be a merry contrast betwixt my glory and my
raiment! But no matter; let him call me what he will, so it please
him; I shall be content.'
CHAPTER XIII
The Dissappearance of the Prince
A HEAVY drowsiness presently fell upon the two comrades. The
king said:
'Remove these rags'- meaning his clothing.
Hendon disappareled the boy without dissent or remark, tucked
him up in bed, then glanced about the room, saying to himself,
ruefully, 'He hath taken my bed again, as before- marry, what shall
I do?' The little king observed his perplexity, and dissipated it with
a word. He said, sleepily:
'Thou wilt sleep athwart the door, and guard it.' In a moment more
he was out of his troubles, in a deep slumber.
'Dear heart, he should have been born a king!' muttered Hendon,
admiringly, 'he playeth the part to a marvel.'
Then he stretched himself across the door, on the floor, saying
contentedly:
'I have lodged worse for seven years; 'twould be but ill gratitude
to Him above to find fault with this.'
He dropped asleep as the dawn appeared. Toward noon he rose,
uncovered his unconscious ward- a section at a time- and took his
measure with a string. The king awoke, just as he had completed his
work, complained of the cold, and asked what he was doing.
''Tis done now, my liege,' said Hendon; 'I have a bit of
business outside, but will presently return; sleep thou again- thou
needest it. There- let me cover thy head also- thou'lt be warm the
sooner.'
The king was back in dreamland before this speech was ended. Miles
slipped softly out, and slipped as softly in again, in the course of
thirty or forty minutes, with a complete second-hand suit of boy's
clothing, of cheap material, and showing signs of wear; but tidy,
and suited to the season of the year. He seated himself and began to
overhaul his purchase, mumbling to himself:
'A longer purse would have got a better sort, but when one has not
the long purse one must be content with what a short one may do-
'"There was a woman in our town,
In our town did dwell"-
'He stirred, methinks- I must sing in a less thunderous key;
'tis not good to mar his sleep, with this journey before him and he so
wearied out, poorchap.... This garment- 'tis well enough- a stitch
here and another one there will set it aright. This other is better,
albeit a stitch or two will not come amiss in it, likewise.... These
be very good and sound, and will keep his small feet warm and dry-
an odd new thing to him, belike, since he has doubtless been used to
foot it bare, winters and summers the same.... Would thread were
bread, seeing one getteth a year's sufficiency for a farthing, and
such a brave big needle without cost, for mere love. Now shall I
have the demon's own time to thread it!'
And so he had. He did as men have always done, and probably always
will do, to the end of time- held the needle still, and tried to
thrust the thread through the eye, which is the opposite of a
woman's way. Time and time again the thread missed the mark, going
sometimes on one side of the needle, sometimes on the other, sometimes
doubling up against the shaft; but he was patient, having been through
these experiences before, when he was soldiering. He succeeded at
last, and took up the garment that had lain waiting, meantime,
across his lap, and began his work. 'The inn is paid- the breakfast
that is to come, included- and there is wherewithal left to buy a
couple of donkeys and meet our little costs for the two or three
days betwixt this and the plenty that awaits us at Hendon Hall-
'"She loved her hus"-
'Body o' me! I have driven the needle under my nail!... It matters
little- 'tis not a novelty- yet 'tis not a convenience, neither.... We
shall be merry there, little one, never doubt it! Thy troubles will
vanish there, and likewise thy sad distemper-
'"She loved her husband dearilee,
But another man"-
'These be noble large stitches!'- holding the garment up and
viewing it admiringly- 'they have a grandeur and a majesty that do
cause these small stingy ones of the tailor-man to look mighty
paltry and plebeian-
'"She loved her husband dearilee,
But another man he loved she,"-
'Marry, 'tis done- a goodly piece of work, too, and wrought with
expedition. Now will I wake him, apparel him, pour for him, feed
him, and then will we hie us to the mart by the Tabard inn in
Southwark and- be pleased to rise, my liege!- he answereth not- what
ho, my liege!- of a truth must I profane his sacred person with a
touch, sith his slumber is deaf to speech. What!'
He threw back the covers- the boy was gone!
He stared about him in speechless astonishment for a moment;
noticed for the first time that his ward's ragged raiment was also
missing, then he began to rage and storm, and shout for the
inn-keeper. At that moment a servant entered with the breakfast.
'Explain, thou limb of Satan, or thy time is come! 'roared the man
of war, and made so savage a spring toward the waiter that this latter
could not find his tongue, for the instant, for fright and surprise.
'Where is the boy?'
In disjointed and trembling syllables the man gave the information
desired.
'You were hardly gone from the place, your worship, when a youth
came running and said it was your worship's will that the boy come
to you straight, at the bridge-end on the Southwark side. I brought
him thither; and when he woke the lad and gave his message, the lad
did grumble some little for being disturbed 'so early,' as he called
it, but straightway trussed on his rags and went with the youth,
only saying it had been better manners that your worship came
yourself, not sent a stranger- and so-'
'And so thou'rt a fool!- a fool, and easily cozened- hang all
thy breed! Yet mayhap no hurt is done. Possibly no harm is meant the
boy. I will go fetch him. Make the table ready. Stay! the coverings of
the bed were disposed as if one lay beneath them- happened that by
accident?'
'I know not, good your worship. I saw the youth meddle with
them- he that came for the boy.'
'Thousand deaths! 'twas done to deceive me- 'tis plain 'twas
done to gain time. Hark ye! Was that youth alone?'
'All alone, your worship.'
'Art sure?'
'Sure, your worship.'
'Collect thy scattered wits- bethink thee- take time, man.'
After a moment's thought, the servant said:
'When he came, none came with him; but now I remember me that as
the two stepped into the throng of the Bridge, a ruffian-looking man
plunged out from some near place; and just as he was joining them-'
'What then?- out with it!' thundered the impatient Hendon,
interrupting.
'Just then the crowd lapped them up and closed them in, and I
saw no more, being called by my master, who was in a rage because a
joint that the scrivener had ordered was forgot, though I take all the
saints to witness that to blame me for that miscarriage were like
holding the unborn babe to judgment for sins com-'
'Out of my sight, idiot! Thy prating drives me mad! Hold!
whither art flying? Canst not bide still an instant? Went they
toward Southwark?'
'Even so, your worship- for, as I said before, as to that
detestable joint, the babe unborn is no whit more blameless than-'
'Art here yet! And prating still? Vanish, lest I throttle thee!'
The servitor vanished. Hendon followed after him, passed him, and
plunged down the stairs two steps at a stride, muttering, ''Tis that
scurvy villain that claimed he was his son. I have lost thee, my
poor little mad master- it is a bitter thought- and I had come to love
thee so! No! by book and bell, not lost! Not lost, for I will
ransack the land till I find thee again. Poor child, yonder is his
breakfast- and mine, but I have no hunger now- so, let the rats have
it- speed, speed! that is the word!' As he wormed his swift way
through the noisy multitudes upon the Bridge, he several times said to
himself- clinging to the thought as if it were a particularly pleasing
one: 'He grumbled but he went- he went, yes, because he thought
Miles Hendon asked it, sweet lad- he would ne'er have done it for
another, I know it well!'
CHAPTER XIV
'Le Roi est Mort - Vive le Roi'
TOWARD daylight of the same morning, Tom Canty stirred out of a
heavy sleep and opened his eyes in the dark. He lay silent a few
moments, trying to analyze his confused thoughts and impressions,
and get some sort of meaning out of them, then suddenly he burst out
in a rapturous but guarded voice:
'I see it all, I see it all! Now God be thanked, I am, indeed,
awake at last! Come, joy! vanish, sorrow! Ho, Nan! Bet! kick off
your straw and hie ye hither to my side, till I do pour into your
unbelieving ears the wildest madcap dream that ever the spirits of
night did conjure up to astonish the soul of man withal!... Ho, Nan, I
say! Bet!'...
A dim form appeared at his side, and a voice said:
'Wilt deign to deliver thy commands?'
'Commands?... Oh, woe is me, I know thy voice! Speak, thou- who am
I?'
'Thou? In sooth, yesternight wert thou the Prince of Wales, to-day
art thou my most gracious liege, Edward, king of England.'
Tom buried his head among his pillows, murmuring plaintively:
'Alack, it was no dream! Go to thy rest, sweet sir- leave me to my
sorrows.'
Tom slept again, and after a time he had this pleasant dream. He
thought it was summer and he was playing, all alone, in the fair
meadow called Goodman's Fields, when a dwarf only a foot high, with
long red whiskers and a humped back, appeared to him suddenly and
said, 'Dig, by that stump.' He did so, and found twelve bright new
pennies- wonderful riches! Yet this was not the best of it; for the
dwarf said:
'I know thee. Thou art a good lad and deserving; thy distresses
shall end, for the day of thy reward is come. Dig here every seventh
day, and thou shalt find always the same treasure, twelve bright new
pennies. Tell none- keep the secret.'
Then the dwarf vanished, and Tom flew to Offal Court with his
prize, saying to himself, 'Every night will I give my father a
penny; he will think I begged it, it will glad his heart, and I
shall no more be beaten. One penny every week the good priest that
teacheth me shall have; mother, Nan, and Bet the other four. We be
done with hunger and rags now, done with fears and frets and savage
usage.'
In his dream he reached his sordid home all out of breath, but
with eyes dancing with grateful enthusiasm; cast four of his pennies
into his mother's lap and cried out:
'They are for thee!- all of them, every one!- for thee and Nan and
Bet- and honestly come by, not begged nor stolen!'
The happy and astonished mother strained him to her breast and
exclaimed:
'It waxeth late- may it please your majesty to rise?'
Ah, that was not the answer he was expecting. The dream had
snapped asunder- he was awake.
He opened his eyes- the richly clad First Lord of the Bedchamber
was kneeling by his couch. The gladness of the lying dream faded away-
the poor boy recognized that he was still a captive and a king. The
room was filled with courtiers clothed in purple mantles- the mourning
color- and with noble servants of the monarch. Tom sat up in bed and
gazed out from the heavy silken curtains upon this fine company.
The weighty business of dressing began, and one courtier after
another knelt and paid his court and offered to the little king his
condolences upon his heavy loss, while the dressing proceeded. In
the beginning, a shirt was taken up by the Chief Equerry in Waiting,
who passed it to the First Lord of the Buckhounds, who passed it to
the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, who passed it to the Head
Ranger of Windsor Forest, who passed it to the Third Groom of the
Stole, who passed it to the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of
Lancaster, who passed it to the Master of the Wardrobe, who passed
it to Norroy King-at-Arms, who passed it to the Constable of the
Tower, who passed it to the Chief Steward of the Household, who passed
it to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer, who passed it to the Lord High
Admiral of England, who passed it to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who
passed it to the First Lord of the Bedchamber, who took what was
left of it and put it on Tom. Poor little wondering chap, it
reminded him of passing buckets at a fire.
Each garment in its turn had to go through this slow and solemn
process; consequently Tom grew very weary of the ceremony; so weary
that he felt an almost gushing gratefulness when he at last saw his
long silken hose begin the journey down the line and knew that the end
of the matter was drawing near. But he exulted too soon. The First
Lord of the Bedchamber received the hose and was about to encase Tom's
legs in them, when a sudden flush invaded his face and he hurriedly
hustled the things back into the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury
with an astounded look and a whispered, 'See, my lord!'- pointing to a
something connected with the hose. The Archbishop paled, then flushed,
and passed the hose to the Lord High Admiral, whispering 'See, my
lord!' The Admiral passed the hose to the Hereditary Grand Diaperer,
and had hardly breath enough in his body to ejaculate, 'See, my lord!'
The hose drifted backward along the line, to the Chief Steward of
the Household, the Constable of the Tower, Norroy King-at-Arms, the
Master of the Wardrobe, the Chancellor Royal of the Duchy of
Lancaster, the Third Groom of the Stole, the Head Ranger of Windsor
Forest, the Second Gentleman of the Bedchamber, the First Lord of
the Buckhounds- accompanied always with that amazed and frightened
'See! see!'- till they finally reached the hands of the Chief
Equerry in Waiting, who gazed a moment, with a pallid face, upon
what had caused all this dismay, then hoarsely whispered 'Body of my
life, a tag gone from a truss point!- to the Tower with the Head
Keeper of the King's Hose!'- after which he leaned upon the shoulder
of the First Lord of the Buckhounds to regather his vanished
strength while fresh hose, without any damaged strings to them, were
brought.
But all things must have an end, and so in time Tom Canty was in a
condition to get out of bed. The proper official poured water, the
proper official engineered the washing, the proper official stood by
with a towel, and by and by Tom got safely through the purifying stage
and was ready for the services of the Hairdresser-Royal. When he at
length emerged from his master's hands, he was a gracious figure and
as pretty as a girl, in his mantle and trunks of purple satin, and
purple-plumed cap. He now moved in state toward his breakfast-room,
through the midst of the courtly assemblage; and as he passed, these
fell back, leaving his way free, and dropped upon their knees.
After breakfast he was conducted, with regal ceremony, attended by
his great officers and his guard of fifty Gentlemen Pensioners bearing
gilt battle-axes, to the throne-room, where he proceeded to transact
business of state. His 'uncle' Lord Hertford, took his stand by the
throne, to assist he royal mind with wise counsel.
The body of illustrious men named by the late king as his
executors, appeared, to ask Tom's approval of certain acts of
theirs- rather a form, and yet not wholly a form, since there was no
Protector as yet. The Archbishop of Canterbury made report of the
decree of the Council of Executors concerning the obsequies of his
late most illustrious majesty, and finished by reading the
signatures of the executors, to wit: the Archbishop of Canterbury; the
Lord Chancellor of England; William Lord St. John; John Lord
Russell; Edward Earl of Hertford; John Viscount Lisle; Cuthbert Bishop
of Durham-
Tom was not listening- an earlier clause of the document was
puzzling him. At this point he turned and whispered to Lord Hertford:
'What day did he say the burial hath been appointed for?'
'The 16th of the coming month, my liege.'
''Tis a strange folly. Will he keep?'
Poor chap, he was still new to the customs of royalty; he was used
to seeing the forlorn dead of Offal Court hustled out of the way
with a very different sort of expedition. However, the Lord Hertford
set his mind at rest with a word or two.
A secretary of state presented an order of the council
appointing the morrow at eleven for the reception of the foreign
ambassadors, and desired the king's assent.
Tom turned an inquiring look toward Hertford, who whispered:
'Your majesty will signify consent. They come to testify their
royal masters' sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your
grace and the realm of England.'
Tom did as he was bidden. Another secretary began to read a
preamble concerning the expenses of the late king's household, which
had amounted to L28,000 during the preceding six months- a sum so vast
that it made Tom Canty gasp; he gasped again when the fact appeared
that L20,000 of this money were still owing and unpaid;(10) and
once more when it appeared that the king's coffers were about empty,
and his twelve hundred servants much embarrassed for lack of the wages
due them. Tom spoke out, with lively apprehension.
'We be going to the dogs, 'tis plain. 'Tis meet and necessary that
we take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith they be of
no value but to make delay, and trouble one with offices that harass
the spirit and shame the soul, they misbecoming any but a doll, that
hath nor brains nor hands to help itself withal. I remember me of a
small house that standeth over against the fish-market, by
Billingsgate-'
A sharp pressure upon Tom's arm stopped his foolish tongue and
sent a blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any sign
that this strange speech had been remarked or given concern.
A secretary made report that forasmuch as the late king had
provided in his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the Earl
of Hertford and raising his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, to the
peerage, and likewise Hertford's son to an earldom, together similar
aggrandizements to other great servants of the crown, the council
had resolved to hold a sitting on the 16th February for the delivering
and confirming of these honors; and that meantime the late king not
having granted, in writing, estates suitable to the support of these
dignities, the council, knowing his private wishes in that regard, had
thought proper to grant to Seymour '500 pound lands' and to Hertford's
son '800 pound lands, and 300 pound of the next bishop's lands which
should fall vacant,'- his present majesty being willing.(11)
Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying
the late king's debts first before squandering all his money; but a
timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford, saved him
this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent, without
spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort. While he sat
reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing strange
and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his mind: why not
make his mother Duchess of Offal Court and give her an estate? But a
sorrowful thought swept it instantly away; he was only a king in name,
these grave veterans and great nobles were his masters; to them his
mother was only the creature of a diseased mind; they would simply
listen to his project with unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor.
The dull work went tediously on. Petitions were read, and
proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious and
wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last Tom
sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, 'In what have I offended,
that the good God should take me away from the fields and the free air
and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me a king and afflict me
so?' Then his poor muddled head nodded awhile, and presently dropped
to his shoulder; and the business of the empire came to a standstill
for want of that august factor, the ratifying power. Silence ensued
around the slumbering child, and the sages of the realm ceased from
their deliberations.
During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of
his keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and the
little Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses were
rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the royal
house; and at the end of the visit his 'elder sister'- afterward the
'Bloody Mary' of history- chilled him with a solemn interview which
had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity. He had a few moments to
himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve years of age was admitted
to his presence, whose clothing, except his snowy ruff and the laces
about his wrists, was of black- doublet, hose and all. He bore no
badge of mourning but a knot of purple ribbon on his shoulder. He
advanced hesitatingly, with head bowed and bare, and dropped upon
one knee in front of Tom. Tom sat still and contemplated him soberly
for a moment. Then he said:
'Rise, lad. Who art thou? What wouldst have?'
The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of
concern in his face. He said:
'Of a surety thou must remember me, my lord. I am thy
whipping-boy.
'My whipping-boy?'
'The same, your grace, I am Humphrey- Humphrey Marlow.'
Tom perceived that here was some one whom his keepers ought to
have posted him about. The situation was delicate. What should he do?-
pretend he knew this lad, and then betray, by his every utterance,
that he had never heard of him before? No, that would not do. An
idea came to his relief: accidents like this might be likely to happen
with some frequency, now that business urgencies would often call
Hertford and St. John from his side, they being members of the council
of executors; therefore perhaps it would be well to strike out a
plan himself to meet the requirements of such emergencies. Yes, that
would be a wise course- he would practise on this boy, and see what
sort of success he might achieve. So he stroked his brow, perplexedly,
a moment or two, and presently said:
'Now I seem to remember thee somewhat- but my wit is clogged and
dim with suffering-'
'Alack, my poor master!' ejaculated the whipping-boy, with
feeling; adding, to himself, 'In truth 'tis as they said- his mind
is gone- alas, poor soul! But misfortune catch me, how am I
forgetting! they said one must not seem to observe that aught is wrong
with him.'
''Tis strange how my memory doth wanton with me these days,'
said Tom. 'But mind it not- I mend apace- a little clue doth often
serve to bring me back again the things and names which had escaped
me. (And not they, only, forsooth, but e'en such as I ne'er heard
before- as this lad shall see.) Give thy business speech.'
''Tis matter of small weight, my liege, yet will I touch upon
it, an it please your grace. Two days gone by, when your majesty
faulted thrice in your Greek- in the morning lessons- dost remember
it?'
'Ye-e-s- methinks I do. (It is not much of a lie- an I had meddled
with the Greek at all, I had not faulted simply thrice, but forty
times). Yes, I do recall it now- go on.'
-'The master, being wroth with what he termed such slovenly and
doltish work, did promise that he would soundly whip me for it- and-'
'Whip thee!' said Tom, astonished out of his presence of mind.
'Why should he whip thee for faults of mine?'
'Ah, your grace forgetteth again. He always scourgeth me, when
thou dost fail in thy lessons.'
'True, true- I had forgot. Thou teachest me in private- then if
I fail, he argueth that thy office was lamely done, and-'
'Oh, my liege, what words are these? I, the humblest of thy
servants, presume to teach thee!'
'Then where is thy blame? What riddle is this? Am I in truth
gone mad, or is it thou? Explain- speak out.'
'But, good your majesty, there's naught that needeth
simplifying. None may visit the sacred person of the Prince of Wales
with blows; wherefore when he faulteth, 'tis I that take them; and
meet it is and right, for that it is mine office and my
livelihood.'(12)
Tom stared at the tranquil boy, observing to himself, 'Lo, it is a
wonderful thing- a most strange and curious trade; I marvel they
have not hired a boy to take my combings and my dressings for me-
would heaven they would!- an they will do this thing, I will take my
lashings in mine own person, giving thanks to God for the change.'
Then he said aloud:
'And hast thou been beaten, poor friend, according to the
promise?'
'No, good your majesty, my punishment was appointed for this
day, and peradventure it may be annulled, as unbefitting the season of
mourning that is come upon us; I know not, and so have made bold to
come hither and remind your grace about your gracious promise to
intercede in my behalf-'
'With the master? To save thee thy whipping?'
'Ah, thou dost remember!'
'My memory mendeth, thou seest. Set thy mind at ease- thy back
shall go unscathed- I will see to it.'
'Oh, thanks, my good lord!' cried the boy, dropping upon his
knee again. 'Mayhap I have ventured far enow; and yet'....
Seeing Master Humphrey hesitate, Tom encouraged him to go on,
saying he was 'in the granting mood.'
'Then will I speak it out, for it lieth near my heart. Sith thou
art no more Prince of Wales but king, thou canst order matters as thou
wilt, with none to say thee nay; wherefore it is not in reason that
thou wilt longer vex thyself with dreary studies, but wilt burn thy
books and turn thy mind to things less irksome. Then am I ruined,
and mine orphan sisters with me!'
'Ruined? Prithee, how?'
'My back is my bread, O my gracious liege! if it go idle, I
starve. An thou cease from study, mine office is gone, thou'lt need no
whipping-boy. Do not turn me away!'
Tom was touched with this pathetic distress. He said, with a right
royal burst of generosity:
'Discomfort thyself no further, lad. Thine office shall be
permanent in thee and thy line, forever.' Then he struck the boy a
light blow on the shoulder with the flat of his sword, exclaiming,
'Rise, Humphrey Marlow, Hereditary Grand Whipping-Boy to the royal
house of England! Banish sorrow- I will betake me to my books again,
and study so ill that they must in justice treble thy wage, so
mightily shall the business of thine office be augmented.'
The grateful Humphrey responded fervidly:
'Thanks, oh, most noble master, this princely lavishness doth
far surpass my most distempered dreams of fortune. Now shall I be
happy all my days, and all the house of Marlow after me.'
Tom had wit enough to perceive that here was a lad who could be
useful to him. He encouraged Humphrey to talk, and he was nothing
loath. He was delighted to believe that he was helping in Tom's
'cure'; for always, as soon as he had finished calling back to Tom's
diseased mind the various particulars of his experiences and
adventures in the royal schoolroom and elsewhere about the palace,
he noticed that Tom was then able to 'recall' the circumstances
quite clearly. At the end of an hour Tom found himself well
freighted with very valuable information concerning personages and
matters pertaining to the court; so he resolved to draw instruction
from this source daily; and to this end he would give order to admit
Humphrey to the royal closet whenever he might come, provided the
majesty of England was not engaged with other people.
Humphrey had hardly been dismissed when my Lord Hertford arrived
with more trouble for Tom. He said that the lords of the council,
fearing that some overwrought report of the king's damaged health
might have leaked out and got abroad, they deemed it wise and best
that his majesty should begin to dine in public after a day or two-
his wholesome complexion and vigorous step, assisted by a carefully
guarded repose of manner and ease and grace of demeanor, would more
surely quiet the general pulse- in case any evil rumors had gone
about- than any other scheme that could be devised.
Then the earl proceeded, very delicately, to instruct Tom as to
the observances proper to the stately occasion, under the rather
thin disguise of 'reminding' him concerning things already known to
him; but to his vast gratification it turned out that Tom needed
very little help in this line- he had been making use of Humphrey in
that direction, for Humphrey had mentioned that within a few days he
was to begin to dine in public; having gathered it from the
swift-winged gossip of the court. Tom kept these facts to himself,
however.
Seeing the royal memory so improved, the earl ventured to apply
a few tests to it, in an apparently casual way, to find out how far
its amendment had progressed. The results were happy, here and
there, in spots- spots where Humphrey's tracks remained- and, on the
whole, my lord was greatly pleased and encouraged. So encouraged was
he, indeed, that he spoke up and said in a quite hopeful voice:
'Now am I persuaded that if your majesty will but tax your
memory yet a little further, it will resolve the puzzle of the Great
Seal- a loss which was of moment yesterday, although of none to-day,
since its term of service ended with our late lord's life. May it
please your grace to make the trial?'
Tom was at sea- a Great Seal was a something which he was
totally unacquainted with. After a moment's hesitation he looked up
innocently and asked:
'What was it like, my lord?'
The earl started, almost imperceptibly, muttering to himself,
'Alack, his wits are flown again!- it was ill wisdom to lead him on to
strain them-' then he deftly turned the talk to other matters, with
the purpose of sweeping the unlucky Seal out of Tom's thoughts- a
purpose which easily succeeded.
CHAPTER XV
Tom as King
THE next day the foreign ambassadors came, with their gorgeous
trains; and Tom, throned in awful state, received them. The
splendors of the scene delighted his eye and fired his imagination
at first, but the audience was long and dreary, and so were most of
the addresses- wherefore, what began as a pleasure, grew into
weariness and homesickness by and by. Tom said the words which
Hertford put into his mouth from time to time, and tried hard to
acquit himself satisfactorily, but he was too new to such things,
and too ill at ease to accomplish more than a tolerable success. He
looked sufficiently like a king, but he was ill able to feel like one.
He was cordially glad when the ceremony was ended.
The larger part of his day was 'wasted'- as he termed it, in his
own mind- in labors pertaining to his royal office. Even the two hours
devoted to certain princely pastimes and recreations were rather a
burden to him than otherwise, they were so fettered by restrictions
and ceremonious observances. However, he had a private hour with his
whipping-boy which he counted clear gain, since he got both
entertainment and needful information out of it.
The third day of Tom Canty's kingship came and went much as the
others had done, but there was a lifting of his cloud in one way- he
felt less uncomfortable than at first; he was getting a little used to
his circumstances and surroundings; his chains still galled, but not
all the time; he found that the presence and homage of the great
afflicted and embarrassed him less and less sharply with every hour
that drifted over his head.
But for one single dread, he could have seen the fourth day
approach without serious distress- the dining in public; it was to
begin that day. There were greater matters in the program- for on that
day he would have to preside at a council which would take his views
and commands concerning the policy to be pursued toward various
foreign nations scattered far and near over the great globe; on that
day, too, Hertford would be formally chosen to the grand office of
Lord Protector; other things of note were appointed for that fourth
day also, but to Tom they were all insignificant compared with the
ordeal of dining all by himself with a multitude of curious eyes
fastened upon him and a multitude of mouths whispering comments upon
his performance- and upon his mistakes, if he should be so unlucky
as to make any.
Still, nothing could stop that fourth day, and so it came. It
found poor Tom low-spirited and absent-minded, and this mood
continued; he could not shake it off. The ordinary duties of the
morning dragged upon his hands, and wearied him. Once more he felt the
sense of captivity heavy upon him.
Late in the forenoon he was in a large audience chamber,
conversing with the Earl of Hertford and duly awaiting the striking of
the hour appointed for a visit of ceremony from a considerable
number of great officials and courtiers.
After a little while Tom, who had wandered to a window and
become interested in the life and movement of the great highway beyond
the palace gates- and not idly interested, but longing with all his
heart to take part in person in its stir and freedom- saw the van of a
hooting and shouting mob of disorderly men, women, and children of the
lowest and poorest degree approaching from up the road.
'I would I knew what 'tis about!' he exclaimed, with all a boy's
curiosity in such happenings.
'Thou art the king!' solemnly responded the earl, with a
reverence. 'Have I your grace's leave to act?'
'Oh, blithely, yes! Oh, gladly, yes!' exclaimed Tom, excitedly,
adding to himself with a lively sense of satisfaction, 'In truth,
being a king is not all dreariness- it hath its compensations and
conveniences.'
The earl called a page, and sent him to the captain of the guard
with the order:
'Let the mob be halted, and inquiry made concerning, the
occasion of its movement. By the king's command!'
A few seconds later a long rank of the royal guards, cased in
flashing steel, filed out at the gates and formed across the highway
in front of the multitude. A messenger returned, to report that the
crowd were following a man, a woman, and a young girl to execution for
crimes committed against the peace and dignity of the realm.
Death- and a violent death- for these poor unfortunates! The
thought wrung Tom's heartstrings. The spirit of compassion took
control of him, to the exclusion of all other considerations; he never
thought of the offended laws, or of the grief or loss which these
three criminals had inflicted upon their victims, he could think of
nothing but the scaffold and the grisly fate hanging over the heads of
the condemned. His concern made him even forget, for the moment,
that he was but the false shadow of a king, not the substance; and
before he knew it he had blurted out the command:
'Bring them here!'
Then he blushed scarlet, and a sort of apology sprung to his lips;
but observing that his order had wrought no sort of surprise in the
earl or the waiting page, he suppressed the words he was about to
utter. The page, in the most matter-of-course way, made a profound
obeisance and retired backward out of the room to deliver the command.
Tom experienced a glow of pride and a renewed sense of the
compensating advantages of the kingly office. He said to himself,
'Truly it is like what I used to feel when I read the old priest's
tales, and did imagine mine own self a prince, giving law and
command to all, saying, " Do this, do that," while none durst offer
let or hindrance to my will.'
Now the doors swung open; one high-sounding title after another
was announced, the personages owning them followed, and the place
was quickly half filled with noble folk and finery. But Tom was hardly
conscious of the presence of these people, so wrought up was he and so
intensely absorbed in that other and more interesting matter. He
seated himself, absently, in his chair of state, and turned his eyes
upon the door with manifestations of impatient expectancy; seeing
which, the company forbore to trouble him, and fell to chatting a
mixture of public business and court gossip one with another.
In a little while the measured tread of military men was heard
approaching, and the culprits entered the presence in charge of an
under-sheriff and escorted by a detail of the king's guard. The
civil officer knelt before Tom, then stood aside; the three doomed
persons knelt also, and remained so; the guard took position behind
Tom's chair. Tom scanned the prisoners curiously. Something about
the dress or appearance of the man had stirred a vague memory in
him. 'Methinks I have seen this man ere now... but the when or the
where fail me'- such was Tom's thought. Just then the man glanced
quickly up, and quickly dropped his face again, not being able to
endure the awful port of sovereignty; but the one full glimpse of
the face, which Tom got, was sufficient. He said to himself: 'Now is
the matter clear; this is the stranger that plucked Giles Witt out
of the Thames, and saved his life that windy, bitter first day of
the New Year- a brave, good deed- pity he hath been doing baser ones
and got himself in this sad case... I have not forgot the day, neither
the hour; by reason that an hour after, upon the stroke of eleven, I
did get a hiding by the hand of Gammer Canty which was of so goodly
and admired severity that all that went before or followed after it
were but fondlings and caresses by comparison.'
Tom now ordered that the woman and the girl be removed from the
presence for a little time; then addressed himself to the
under-sheriff, saying:
'Good sir, what is this man's offense?'
The officer knelt, and answered:
'So please your majesty, he hath taken the life of a subject by
poison.'
Tom's compassion for the prisoner, and admiration of him as the
daring rescuer of a drowning boy, experienced a most damaging shock.
'The thing was proven upon him?' he asked.
'Most clearly, sire.'
Tom sighed, and said:
'Take him away- he hath earned his death. 'Tis a pity, for he
was a brave heart- na- na, I mean he hath the look of it!'
The prisoner clasped his hands together with sudden energy, and
wrung them despairingly, at the same time appealing imploringly to the
'king' in broken and terrified phrases:
'Oh, my lord the king, an thou canst pity the lost, have pity upon
me! I am innocent- neither hath that wherewith I am charged been
more than but lamely proved- yet I speak not of that; the judgment
is gone forth against me and may not suffer alteration; yet in mine
extremity I beg a boon, for my doom is more than I can bear. A
grace, a grace, my lord the king! in thy royal compassion grant my
prayer- give commandment that I be hanged!'
Tom was amazed. This was not the outcome he had looked for.
'Odds my life, a strange boon! Was it not the fate intended thee?'
'Oh, good my liege, not so! It is ordered that I be boiled alive!'
The hideous surprise of these words almost made Tom spring from
his chair. As soon as he could recover his wits he cried out:
'Have thy wish, poor soul! an thou had poisoned a hundred men thou
shouldst not suffer so miserable a death.'
The prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into
passionate expressions of gratitude- ending with:
'If ever thou shouldst know misfortune- which God forbid!- may thy
goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!'
Tom turned to the Earl of Hertford, and said:
'My lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's
ferocious doom?'
'It is the law, your grace- for poisoners. In Germany coiners be
boiled to death in oil- not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let
down into the oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the
legs, then-'
'Oh, prithee, no more, my lord, I cannot bear it!' cried Tom,
covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the picture. 'I beseech
your good lordship that order be taken to change this law- oh, let
no more poor creatures be visited with its tortures.'
The earl's face showed profound ratification, for he was a man
of merciful and generous impulses- a thing not very common with his
class in that fierce age.
He said:
'These your grace's noble words have sealed its doom. History will
remember it to the honor of your royal house.'
The under-sheriff was about to remove his prisoner; Tom gave him a
sign to wait; then he said:
'Good sir, I would look into this matter further. The man has said
his deed was but lamely proved. Tell me what thou knowest.'
'If the king's grace please, it did appear upon the trial, that
this man entered into a house in the hamlet of Islington where one lay
sick- three witnesses say it was at ten of the clock in the morning
and two say it was some minutes later- the sick man being alone at the
time, and sleeping- and presently the man came forth again, and went
his way. The sick man died within the hour, being torn with spasm
and retchings.'
'Did any see the poison given? Was poison found?'
'Marry, no, my liege.'
'Then how doth one know there was poison given at all?'
'Please your majesty, the doctors testified that none die with
such symptoms but by poison.'
Weighty evidence, this- in that simple age. Tom recognized its
formidable nature, and said:
'The doctor knoweth his trade- belike they were right. The
matter hath an ill look for this poor man.'
'Yet was not this all, your majesty; there is more and worse. Many
testified that a witch, since gone from the village, none know
whither, did foretell, and speak it privately in their ears, that
the sick man would die by poison- and more, that a stranger would give
it- a stranger with brown hair and clothed in a worn and common
garb; and surely this prisoner doth answer woundily to the bill.
Please, your majesty, to give the circumstance that solemn weight
which is its due, seeing it was foretold.'
This was an argument of tremendous force, in that superstitious
day. Tom felt that the thing was settled; if evidence was worth
anything, this poor fellow's guilt was proved. Still he offered the
prisoner a chance, saying:
'If thou canst say aught in thy behalf, speak.'
'Naught that will avail, my king. I am innocent, yet cannot I make
it appear. I have no friends, else might I show that I was not in
Islington that day; so also might I show that at that hour they name I
was above a league away, seeing I was at Wapping Old Stairs; yea more,
my king, for I could show, that while they say I was taking life, I
was saving it. A drowning boy-'
'Peace! Sheriff, name the day the deed was done!'
'At ten in the morning, or some minutes later, the first day of
the new year, most illustrious-'
'Let the prisoner go free- it is the king's will!'
Another blush followed this unregal outburst, and he covered his
indecorum as well as he could by adding:
'It enrageth me that a man should be hanged upon such idle,
hare-brained evidence!'
A low buzz of admiration swept through the assemblage. It was
not admiration of the decree that had been delivered by Tom, for the
propriety or expediency of pardoning a convicted poisoner was a
thing which few there would have felt justified in either admitting or
admiring- no, the admiration was for the intelligence and spirit which
Tom had displayed. Some of the low-voiced remarks were to this effect:
'This is no mad king- he hath his wits sound.'
'How sanely he put his questions- how like his former natural self
was this abrupt, imperious disposal of the matter!'
'God be thanked his infirmity is spent! This is no weakling, but a
king. He hath borne himself like to his own father.'
The air being filled with applause, Tom's ear necessarily caught a
little of it. The effect which this had upon him was to put him
greatly at his ease, and also to charge his system with very
gratifying sensations.
However, his juvenile curiosity soon rose superior to these
pleasant thoughts and feelings; he was eager to know what sort of
deadly mischief the woman and the little girl could have been about;
so, by his command the two terrified and sobbing creatures were
brought before him.
'What is it that these have done?' he inquired of the sheriff.
'Please your majesty, a black crime is charged upon them, and
clearly proven; wherefore the judges have decreed, according to the
law, that they be hanged. They sold themselves to the devil- such is
their crime.'
Tom shuddered. He had been taught to abhor people who did this
wicked thing. Still, he was not going to deny himself the pleasure
of feeding his curiosity, for all that; so he asked:
'Where was this done?- and when?'
'On a midnight, in December- in a ruined church, your majesty.'
Tom shuddered again. 'Who was there present?'
'Only these two, your grace- and that other.'
'Have these confessed?'
'Nay, not so, sire- they do deny it.'
'Then, prithee, how was it known?'
'Certain witnesses did see them wending thither, good your
majesty; this bred the suspicion, and dire effects have since
confirmed and justified it. In particular, it is in evidence that
through the wicked power so obtained, they did invoke and bring
about a storm that wasted all the region round about. Above forty
witnesses have proved the storm; and sooth one might have had a
thousand, for all had reason to remember it, sith all had suffered
by it.'
'Certes this is a serious matter.' Tom turned this dark piece of
scoundrelism over in his mind awhile, then asked:
'Suffered the woman, also, by the storm?'
Several old heads among the assemblage nodded their recognition of
the wisdom of this question. The sheriff, however, saw nothing
consequential in the inquiry; he answered, with simple directness.
'Indeed, she did, your majesty, and most righteously, as all aver.
Her habitation was swept away, and herself and child left
shelterless.'
'Methinks the power to do herself so ill a turn was dearly bought.
She had been cheated, had she paid but a farthing for it; that she
paid her soul, and her child's, argueth that she is mad; if she is mad
she knoweth not what she doth, therefore sinneth not.'
The elderly heads nodded recognition of Tom's wisdom once more,
and one individual murmured, 'An the king be mad himself, according to
report, then it is a madness of a sort that would improve the sanity
of some I wot of, if by the gentle providence of God they could but
catch it.'
'What age hath the child?' asked Tom.
'Nine years, please your majesty.'
'By the law of England may a child enter into covenant and sell
itself, my lord?' asked Tom, turning to a learned judge.
'The law doth not permit a child to make or meddle in any
weighty matter, good my liege, holding that its callow wit unfitteth
it to cope with the riper wit and evil schemings of them that are
its elders. The devil may buy a child, if he so choose, and the
child agree thereto, but not an Englishman- in this latter case the
contract would be null and void.'
'It seemeth a rude unchristian thing, and ill contrived, that
English law denieth privileges to Englishmen, to waste them on the
devil!' cried Tom, with honest heat.
This novel view of the matter excited many smiles, and was
stored away in many heads to be repeated about the court as evidence
of Tom's originality as well as progress toward mental health.
The elder culprit had ceased from sobbing, and was hanging upon
Tom's words with an excited interest and a growing hope. Tom noticed
this, and it strongly inclined his sympathies toward her in her
perilous and unfriended situation. Presently he asked:
'How wrought they, to bring the storm?'
'By pulling off their stockings, sire.'
This astonished Tom, and also fired his curiosity to fever heat.
He said eagerly:
'It is wonderful! Hath it always this dread effect?'
'Always, my liege- at least if the woman desire it, and utter
the needful words, either in her mind or with her tongue.'
Tom turned to the woman, and said with impetuous zeal:
'Exert thy power- I would see a storm.'
There was a sudden paling of cheeks in the superstitious
assemblage, and a general, though unexpressed, desire to get out of
the place- all of which was lost upon Tom, who was dead to
everything but the proposed cataclysm. Seeing a puzzled and astonished
look in the woman's face, he added, excitedly:
'Never fear- thou shalt be blameless. More- thou shalt go free-
none shall touch thee. Exert thy power.'
'O, my lord the king, I have it not- I have been falsely accused.'
'Thy fears stay thee. Be of good heart, thou shalt suffer no harm.
Make a storm- it mattereth not how small a one- I require naught great
or harmful, but indeed prefer the opposite- do this and thy life is
spared- thou shalt go out free, with thy child, bearing the king's
pardon, and safe from hurt or malice from any in the realm.'
The woman prostrated herself, and protested, with tears, that
she had no power to do the miracle, else she would gladly win her
child's life alone, and be content to lose her own, if by obedience to
the king's command so precious a grace might be acquired.
Tom urged- the woman still adhered to her declarations. Finally,
he said:
'I think the woman hath said true. An my mother were in her
place and gifted with the devil's functions, she had not stayed a
moment to call her storms and lay the whole land in ruins, if the
saving of my forfeit life were the price she got! It is argument
that other mothers are made in like mold. Thou art free, good wife-
thou and thy child- for I do think thee innocent. Now thou'st naught
to fear, being pardoned- pull off thy stockings!- an thou canst make
me a storm, thou shalt be rich!'
The redeemed creature was loud in her gratitude, and proceeded
to obey, while Tom looked on with eager expectancy, a little marred by
apprehension; the courtiers at the same time manifesting decided
discomfort and uneasiness. The woman stripped her own feet and her
little girl's also, and plainly did her best to reward the king's
generosity with an earthquake, but it was all a failure and a
disappointment. Tom sighed and said:
'There, good soul, trouble thyself no further, thy power is
departed out of thee. Go thy way in peace; and if it return to thee at
any time, forget me not, but fetch me a storm.'(13)
CHAPTER XVI
The State Dinner
THE dinner-hour drew near- yet, strangely enough, the thought
brought but slight discomfort to Tom, and hardly any terror. The
morning's experiences had wonderfully built up his confidence; the
poor little ash-cat was already more wonted to his strange garret,
after four days' habit, than a mature person could have become in a
full month. A child's facility in accommodating itself to
circumstances was never more strikingly illustrated.
Let us privileged ones hurry to the great banqueting-room and have
a glance at matters there while Tom is being made ready for the
imposing occasion. It is a spacious apartment, with gilded pillars and
pilasters, and pictured walls and ceilings. At the door stand tall
guards, as rigid as statues, dressed in rich and picturesque costumes,
and bearing halberds. In a high gallery which runs all around the
place is a band of musicians and a packed company of citizens of
both sexes, in brilliant attire. In the center of the room, upon a
raised platform, is Tom's table. Now let the ancient chronicler speak:
'A gentleman enters the room bearing a rod, and along with him
another bearing a table-cloth, which, after they have both kneeled
three times with the utmost veneration, he spreads upon the table, and
after kneeling again they both retire; then come two others, one
with the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a plate, and
bread; when they have kneeled as the others had done, and placed
what was brought upon the table, they too retire with the same
ceremonies performed by the first; at last come two nobles richly
clothed, one bearing a tasting-knife, who, after prostrating
themselves in the most graceful manner, approach and rub the table
with bread and salt, with as much awe as if the king had been
present.'(14)
So end the solemn preliminaries. Now, far down the echoing
corridors we hear a bugle-blast, and the indistinct cry, 'Place for
the king! way for the king's most excellent majesty!' These sounds are
momently repeated- they grow nearer and nearer- and presently,
almost in our faces, the martial note peals and the cry rings out,
'Way for the king!' At this instant the shining pageant appears, and
files in at the door, with a measured march. Let the chronicler
speak again:
'First come Gentlemen, Barons, Earls, Knights of the Garter, all
richly dressed and bareheaded; next comes the Chancellor, between two,
one of which carries the royal scepter, the other the Sword of State
in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleurs-de-lis, the point
upwards; next comes the King himself- whom, upon his appearing, twelve
trumpets and many drums salute with a great burst of welcome, whilst
all in the galleries rise in their places, crying "God save the King!"
After him come nobles attached to his person, and on his right and
left march his guard of honor, his fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, with
gilt battle-axes.'
This was all fine and pleasant. Tom's pulse beat high and a glad
light was in his eye. He bore himself right gracefully, and all the
more so because he was not thinking of how he was doing it, his mind
being charmed and occupied with the blithe sights and sounds about
him- and besides, nobody can be very ungraceful in nicely fitting
beautiful clothes after he has grown a little used to them- especially
if he is for the moment unconscious of them. Tom remembered his
instructions, and acknowledged his greeting with a slight
inclination of his plumed head, and a courteous 'I thank ye, my good
people.'
He seated himself at table without removing his cap; and did it
without the least embarrassment; for to eat with one's cap on was
the one solitary royal custom upon which the kings and the Cantys
met upon common ground, neither party having any advantage over the
other in the matter of old familiarity with it. The pageant broke up
and grouped itself picturesquely, and remained bareheaded.
Now, to the sound of gay music, the Yeomen of the Guard entered-
'the tallest and mightiest men in England, they being selected in this
regard'- but we will let the chronicler tell about it:
'The Yeomen of the Guard entered bareheaded, clothed in scarlet,
with golden roses upon their backs; and these went and came,
bringing in each turn a course of dishes, served in plate. These
dishes were received by a gentleman in the same order they were
brought, and placed upon the table, while the taster gave to each
guard a mouthful to eat of the particular dish he had brought, for
fear of any poison.'
Tom made a good dinner, notwithstanding he was conscious that
hundreds of eyes followed each morsel to his mouth and watched him eat
it with an interest which could not have been more intense if it had
been a deadly explosive and was expected to blow him up and scatter
him all over the place. He was careful not to hurry, and equally
careful not to do anything whatever for himself, but wait till the
proper official knelt down and did it for him. He got through
without a mistake- flawless and precious triumph.
When the meal was over at last and he marched away in the midst of
his bright pageant, with the happy noises in his ears of blaring
bugles, rolling drums, and thundering acclamations, he felt that if he
had seen the worst of dining in public, it was an ordeal which he
would be glad to endure several times a day if by that means he
could but buy himself free from some of the more formidable
requirements of his royal office.
CHAPTER XVII
Foo-foo the First
MILES Hendon hurried along toward the Southwark end of the bridge,
keeping a sharp lookout for the persons he sought, and hoping and
expecting to overtake them presently. He was disappointed in this,
however. By asking questions, he was enabled to track them part of the
way through Southwark; then all traces ceased, and he was perplexed as
to how to proceed. Still, he continued his efforts as best he could
during the rest of the day. Nightfall found him leg-weary, half
famished, and his desire as far from accomplishment as ever; so he
supped at the Tabard inn and went to bed, resolved to make an early
start in the morning, and give the town an exhaustive search. As he
lay thinking and planning, he presently began to reason thus: The
boy would escape from the ruffian, his reputed father, if possible;
would he go back to London and seek his former haunts? No, he would
not do that, he would avoid recapture. What, then, would he do?
Never having had a friend in the world, or a protector, until he met
Miles Hendon, he would naturally try to find that friend again,
provided the effort did not require him to go toward London and
danger. He would strike for Hendon Hall, that is what he would do, for
he knew Hendon was homeward bound, and there he might expect to find
him. Yes, the case was plain to Hendon- he must lose no more time in
Southwark, but move at once through Kent, toward Monk's Holm,
searching the wood and inquiring as he went. Let us return to the
vanished little king now.
The ruffian, whom the waiter at the inn on the bridge saw 'about
to join' the youth and the king, did not exactly join them, but fell
in close behind them and followed their steps. He said nothing. His
left arm was in a sling, and he wore a large green patch over his left
eye; he limped slightly, and used an oaken staff as a support. The
youth led the king a crooked course through Southwark, and by and by
struck into the highroad beyond. The king was irritated now, and
said he would stop here- it was Hendon's place to come to him, not his
to go to Hendon. He would not endure such insolence; he would stop
where he was. The youth said:
'Thou'lt tarry here, and thy friend lying wounded in the wood
yonder? So be it, then.'
The king's manner changed at once. He cried out:
'Wounded? And who hath dared to do it? But that is apart; lead on,
lead on! Faster, sirrah! art shod with lead? Wounded, is he? Now
though the doer of it be a duke's son, he shall rue it!'
It was some distance to the wood, but the space was speedily
traversed. The youth looked about him, discovered a bough sticking
in the ground, with a small bit of rag tied to it, then led the way
into the forest, watching for similar boughs and finding them at
intervals; they were evidently guides to the point he was aiming at.
By and by an open place was reached, where were the charred remains of
a farmhouse, and near them a barn which was falling to ruin and decay.
There was no sign of life anywhere, and utter silence prevailed. The
youth entered the barn, the king following eagerly upon his heels.
No one there! The king shot a surprised and suspicious glance at the
youth, and asked:
'Where is he?'
A mocking laugh was his answer. The king was in a rage in a
moment; he seized a billet of wood and was in the act of charging upon
the youth when another mocking laugh fell upon his ear. It was from
the lame ruffian, who had been following at a distance. The king
turned and said angrily:
'Who art thou? What is thy business here?'
'Leave thy foolery,' said the man, 'and quiet thyself. My disguise
is none so good that thou canst pretend thou knowest not thy father
through it.'
'Thou art not my father. I know thee not. I am the king. If thou
hast hid my servant, find him for me, or thou shalt sup sorrow for
what thou hast done.'
John Canty replied, in a stern and measured voice:
'It is plain thou art mad, and I am loath to punish thee; but if
thou provoke me, I must. Thy prating doth no harm here, where there
are no ears that need to mind thy follies, yet is it well to
practise thy tongue to wary speech, that it may do no hurt when our
quarters change. I have done a murder, and may not tarry at home-
neither shalt thou, seeing I need thy service. My name is changed, for
wise reasons; it is Hobbs- John Hobbs; thine is Jack- charge thy
memory accordingly. Now, then, speak. Where is thy mother? Where are
thy sisters? They came not to the place appointed- knowest thou
whither they went?'
The king answered, sullenly:
'Trouble me not with these riddles. My mother is dead; my
sisters are in the palace.'
The youth near by burst into a derisive laugh, and the king
would have assaulted him, but Canty- or Hobbs, as he now called
himself- prevented him, and said:
'Peace, Hugo, vex him not; his mind is astray, and thy ways fret
him. Sit thee down, Jack, and quiet thyself; thou shalt have a
morsel to eat, anon.'
Hobbs and Hugo fell to talking together, in low voices, and the
king removed himself as far as he could from their disagreeable
company. He withdrew into the twilight of the farther end of the barn,
where he found the earthen floor bedded a foot deep with straw. He lay
down here, drew straw over himself in lieu of blankets, and was soon
absorbed in thinking. He had many griefs, but the minor ones were
swept almost into forgetfulness by the supreme one, the loss of his
father. To the rest of the world the name of Henry VIII brought a
shiver, and suggested an ogre whose nostrils breathed destruction
and whose hand dealt scourgings and death; but to this boy the name
brought only sensations of pleasure, the figure it invoked wore a
countenance that was all gentleness and affection. He called to mind a
long succession of loving passages between his father and himself, and
dwelt fondly upon them, his unstinted tears attesting how deep and
real was the grief that possessed his heart. As the afternoon wasted
away, the lad, wearied with his troubles, sunk gradually into a
tranquil and healing slumber.
After a considerable time- he could not tell how long- his
senses struggled to a half-consciousness, and as he lay with closed
eyes vaguely wondering where he was and what had been happening, he
noted a murmurous sound, the sullen beating of rain upon the roof. A
snug sense of comfort stole over him, which was rudely broken, the
next moment, by a chorus of piping cackles and coarse laughter. It
startled him disagreeably, and he unmuffled his head to see whence
this interruption proceeded. A grim and unsightly picture met his eye.
A bright fire was burning in the middle of the floor, at the other end
of the barn; and around it, and lit weirdly up by the red glare,
lolled and sprawled the motliest company of tattered gutter-scum and
ruffians, of both sexes, he had ever read or dreamed of. There were
huge, stalwart men, brown with exposure, long-haired, and clothed in
fantastic rags; there were middle-sized youths, of truculent
countenance, and similarly clad; there were blind medicants, with
patched or bandaged eyes; crippled ones, with wooden legs and
crutches; there was a villain-looking peddler with his pack; a
knife-grinder, a tinker, and a barber-surgeon, with the implements
of their trades; some of the females were hardly grown girls, some
were at prime, some were old and wrinkled hags, and all were loud,
brazen, foul-mouthed; and all soiled and slatternly; there were
three sore-faced babies; there were a couple of starveling curs,
with strings around their necks, whose office was to lead the blind.
The night was come, the gang had just finished feasting, an orgy
was beginning, the can of liquor was passing from mouth to mouth. A
general cry broke forth:
'A song! a song from the Bat and Dick Dot-and-go-One!'
One of the blind men got up, and made ready by casting aside the
patches that sheltered his excellent eyes, and the pathetic placard
which recited the cause of his calamity. Dot-and-go-One
disencumbered himself of his timber leg and took his place, upon sound
and healthy limbs, beside his fellow-rascal; then they roared out a
rollicking ditty, and were reinforced by the whole crew, at the end of
each stanza, in a rousing chorus. By the time the last stanza was
reached, the half-drunken enthusiasm had risen to such a pitch that
everybody joined in and sang it clear through from the beginning,
producing a volume of villainous sound that made the rafters quake.
These were the inspiring words:
'Bien Darkmans then, Bouse Mort and Ken,
The bien Coves bings awast,
On Chates to trine by Rome Coves dine
For his long lib at last.
Bing'd out bien Morts and toure, and toure,
Bing out of the Rome vile bine,
And toure the Cove that cloy'd your duds,
Upon upon the Chates to trine.'(15)
Conversation followed; not in the thieves' dialect of the song,
for that was only used in talk when unfriendly ears might be
listening. In the course of it it appeared that 'John Hobbs' was not
altogether a new recruit, but had trained in the gang at some former
time. His later history was called for, and when he said he had
'accidentally' killed a man, considerable satisfaction was
expressed; when he added that the man was a priest, he was roundly
applauded, and had to take a drink with everybody. Old acquaintances
welcomed him joyously, and new ones were proud to shake him by the
hand. He was asked why he had 'tarried away so many months.' He
answered:
'London is better than the country, and safer these late years,
the laws be so bitter and so diligently enforced. An I had not had
that accident, I had stayed there. I had resolved to stay, and
nevermore venture countrywards- but the accident had ended that.'
He inquired how many persons the gang numbered now. The 'Ruffler,'
or chief, answered:
'Five and twenty sturdy budges, bulks, files, clapperdogeons and
maunders, counting the dells and doxies and other morts.(16) Most are
here, the rest are wandering eastward, along the winter lay. We follow
at dawn.'
'I do not see the Wen among the honest folk about me. Where may he
be?'
'Poor lad, his diet is brimstone now, and over hot for a
delicate taste. He was killed in a brawl, somewhere about midsummer.'
'I sorrow to hear that; the Wen was a capable man, and brave.'
'That was he, truly. Black Bess, his dell, is of us yet, but
absent on the eastward tramp; a fine lass, of nice ways and orderly
conduct, none ever seeing her drunk above four days in the seven.'
'She was ever strict- I remember it well- a goodly wench and
worthy all commendation. Her mother was more free and less particular;
a troublesome and ugly-tempered beldame, but furnished with a wit
above the common.'
'We lost her through it. Her gift of palmistry and other sorts
of fortune-telling begot for her at last a witch's name and fame.
The law roasted her to death at a slow fire. It did touch me to a sort
of tenderness to see the gallant way she met her lot- cursing and
reviling all the crowd that gaped and gazed around her, whilst the
flames licked upward toward her face and catched her thin locks and
crackled about her old gray head- cursing them, said I?- cursing them!
why an thou shouldst live a thousand years thou'dst never hear so
masterful a cursing. Alack, her art died with her. There be base and
weakling imitations left, but no true blasphemy.'
The Ruffler sighed; the listeners sighed in sympathy; a general
depression fell upon the company for a moment, for even hardened
outcasts like these are not wholly dead to sentiment, but are able
to feel a fleeting sense of loss and affliction at wide intervals
and under peculiarly favoring circumstances- as in cases like to this,
for instance, when genius and culture depart and leave no heir.
However, a deep drink all round soon restored the spirits of the
mourners.
'Have any other of our friends fared hardly?' asked Hobbs.
'Some- yes. Particularly new-comers- such as small husbandmen
turned shiftless and hungry upon the world because their farms were
taken from them to be changed to sheep-ranges. They begged, and were
whipped at the cart's tail, naked from the girdle up, till the blood
ran; then set in the stocks to be pelted; they begged again, were
whipped again, and deprived of an ear; they begged a third time-
poor devils, what else could they do?- and were branded on the cheek
with a red-hot iron, then sold for slaves; they ran away, were
hunted down, and hanged. 'Tis a brief tale, and quickly told. Others
of us have fared less hardly. Stand forth, Yokel, Burns, and Hodge-
show your adornments!'
These stood up and stripped away some of their rags, exposing
their backs, crisscrossed with ropy old welts left by the lash; one
turned up his hair and showed the place where a left ear had once
been; another showed a brand upon his shoulder- the letter V and a
mutilated ear; the third said:
'I am Yokel, once a farmer and prosperous, with loving wife and
kids- now am I somewhat different in estate and calling; and the
wife and kids are gone; mayhap they are in heaven, mayhap in- in the
other place- but the kindly God be thanked, they bide no more in
England! My good old blameless mother strove to earn bread by
nursing the sick; one of these died, the doctors knew not how, so my
mother was burned for a witch, whilst my babes looked on and wailed.
English law!- up, all with your cups!- now all together and with a
cheer!- drink to the merciful English law that delivered her from
the English hell! Thank you, mates, one and all. I begged, from
house to house- I and the wife- bearing with us the hungry kids- but
it was a crime to be hungry in England- so they stripped us and lashed
us through three towns. Drink ye all again to the merciful English
law!- for its lash drank deep of my Mary's blood and its blessed
deliverance came quick. She lies there, in the potter's field, safe
from all harms. And the kids- well, whilst the law lashed me from town
to town, they starved. Drink lads- only a drop- a drop to the poor
kids, that never did any creature harm. I begged again- begged for a
crust, and got the stocks and lost an ear- see, here bides the
stump; I begged again, and here is the stump of the other to keep me
minded of it. And still I begged again, and was sold for a slave- here
on my cheek under this stain, if I washed it off, ye might see the red
S the branding iron left there! A SLAVE! Do ye understand that word!
An English SLAVE!- that is he that stands before ye. I have run from
my master, and when I am found- the heavy curse of heaven fall on
the law of the land that hath commanded it!- I shall hang!'(17)
A ringing voice came through the murky air:
'Thou shalt not!- and this day the end of that law is come!'
All turned, and saw the fantastic figure of the little king
approaching hurriedly; as it emerged into the light and was clearly
revealed, a general explosion of inquiries broke out:
'Who is it ? What is it? Who art thou, manikin?'
The boy stood unconfused in the midst of all those surprised and
questioning eyes, and answered with princely dignity:
'I am Edward, king of England.'
A wild burst of laughter followed, partly of derision and partly
of delight in the excellence of the joke. The king was stung. He
said sharply:
'Ye mannerless vagrants, is this your recognition of the royal
boon I have promised?'
He said more, with angry voice and excited gesture, but it was
lost in a whirlwind of laughter and mocking exclamations. 'John Hobbs'
made several attempts to make himself heard above the din, and at last
succeeded- saying:
'Mates, he is my son, a dreamer, a fool, and stark mad- mind him
not- he thinketh he is the king.'
'I am the king,' said Edward, turning toward him, 'as thou shalt
know to thy cost, in good time. Thou hast confessed a murder- thou
shalt swing for it.'
'Thou'lt betray me!- thou? An I get my hands upon thee-'
'Tut-tut!' said the burly Ruffler, interposing in time to save the
king, and emphasizing this service by knocking Hobbs down with his
fist, 'hast respect for neither kings nor Rufflers? An thou insult
my presence so again, I'll hang thee up myself.' Then he said to his
majesty, 'Thou must make no threats against thy mates, lad; and thou
must guard thy tongue from saying evil of them elsewhere. Be king,
if it please thy mad humor, but be not harmful in it. Sink the title
thou hast uttered- 'tis treason; we be bad men, in some few trifling
ways, but none among us is so base as to be traitor to his king; we be
loving and loyal hearts, in that regard. Note if I speak truth.
Now-all together: "Long live Edward, King of England!"'
'LONG LIVE EDWARD, KING OF ENGLAND!'
The response came with such a thunder-gust from the motley crew
that the crazy building vibrated to the sound. The little king's
face lighted with pleasure for an instant, and he slightly inclined
his head and said with grave simplicity:
'I thank you, my good people.'
This unexpected result threw the company into convulsions of
merriment. When something like quiet was presently come again, the
Ruffler said, firmly, but with an accent of good nature:
'Drop it, boy, 'tis not wise, nor well. Humor thy fancy, if thou
must, but choose some other title.'
A tinker shrieked out a suggestion:
'Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!'
The title 'took' at once, every throat responded, and a roaring
shout sent up, of:
'Long live Foo-foo the First, king of the Mooncalves!' followed by
hootings, cat-calls, and peals of laughter.
'Hale him forth, and crown him!'
'Robe him!'
'Scepter him!'
'Throne him!'
These and twenty other cries broke out at once; and almost
before the poor little victim could draw a breath he was crowned
with a tin basin, robed in a tattered blanket, throned upon a
barrel, and sceptered with tinker's soldering-iron. Then all flung
themselves upon their knees about him and sent up a chorus of ironical
wailings, and mocking supplications, while they swabbed their eyes
with their soiled and ragged sleeves and aprons:
'Be gracious to us, O sweet king!'
'Trample not upon thy beseeching worms, O noble majesty!'
'Pity thy slaves, and comfort them with a royal kick!'
'Cheer us and warm us with thy gracious rays, O flaming sun of
sovereignty!'
'Sanctify the ground with the touch of thy foot, that we may eat
the dirt and be ennobled!'
'Deign to spit upon us, O sire, that our children's children may
tell of thy princely condescension, and be proud and happy forever!'
But the humorous tinker made the 'hit' of the evening and
carried off the honors. Kneeling, he pretended to kiss the king's
foot, and was indignantly spurned; whereupon he went about begging for
a rag to paste over the place upon his face which had been touched
by the foot, saying it must be preserved from contact with the
vulgar air, and that he should make his fortune by going on the
highway and exposing it to view at the rate of a hundred shillings a
sight. He made himself so killingly funny that he was the envy and
admiration of the whole mangy rabble.
Tears of shame and indignation stood in the little monarch's eyes;
and the thought in his heart was, 'Had I offered them a deep wrong
they could not be more cruel- yet have I proffered naught but to do
them a kindness- and it is thus they use me for it!'
CHAPTER XVIII
The Prince with the Tramps
THE troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward
on their march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under
foot, and a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the
company; some were sullen and silent, some were irritable and
petulant, none were gentle-humored, all were thirsty.
The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief
instructions, and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let
him alone; he also warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.
After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted
somewhat. The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to
improve. They grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to
chaff each other and insult passengers along the highway. This
showed that they were awaking to an appreciation of life and its
joys once more. The dread in which their sort was held was apparent in
the fact that everybody gave them the road, and took their ribald
insolences meekly, without venturing to talk back. They snatched linen
from the hedges, occasionally, in full view of the owners, who made no
protest, but only seemed grateful that they did not take the hedges,
too.
By and by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at
home while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder
clean to furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife
and her daughters under the chin while receiving the food from their
hands, and made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting
epithets and bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables
at the farmer and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and
applauded uproariously when a good hit was made. They ended by
buttering the head of one of the daughters who resented some of
their familiarities. When they took their leave they threatened to
come back and burn the house over the heads of the family if any
report of their doings got to the ears of the authorities.
About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a
halt behind a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An
hour was allowed for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad
to enter the village at different points to ply their various
trades. 'Jack' was sent with Hugo. They wandered hither and thither
for some time, Hugo watching for opportunities to do a stroke of
business but finding none- so he finally said:
'I see naught to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will
beg.'
'We, forsooth! Follow thy trade- it befits thee. But I will not
beg.'
'Thou'lt not beg!' exclaimed Hugo, eying the king with surprise.
'Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?'
'What dost thou mean?'
'Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?'
'I? Thou idiot!'
'Spare thy compliments- thy stock will last longer. Thy father
says thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you
will even make so bold as to say he lied,' scoffed Hugo.
'Him you call my father? Yes, he lied.'
'Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it
for thy amusement, not thy hurt. An I tell him this, he will scorch
thee finely for it.'
'Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him.'
'I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy
judgment. Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life,
without going out of one's way to invite them. But a truce to these
matters; I believe your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he
doth lie, upon occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no
occasion here. A wise man does not waste so good a commodity as
lying for naught. But come; sith it is thy humor to give over begging,
wherewithal shall we busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?'
The king said, impatiently:
'Have done with this folly- you weary me!'
Hugo replied, with temper:
'Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it.
But I will tell you what you will do. You will play decoy whilst I
beg. Refuse, an you think you may venture!'
The king was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said,
interrupting:
'Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in
a fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall
upon your knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as if all the devils of
misery were in your belly, and say, "Oh, sir, it is my poor
afflicted brother, and we be friendless; o' God's name cast through
your merciful eyes one pitiful look upon a sick, forsaken, and most
miserable wretch; bestow one little penny out of thy riches upon one
smitten of God and ready to perish!"- and mind you, keep you on
wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his penny, else shall you
rue it.'
Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes,
and reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand,
down he sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and
wallow in the dirt, in seeming agony.
'O dear, O dear!' cried the benevolent stranger. 'Oh, poor soul,
poor soul, how he doth suffer! There- let me help thee up.'
'O, noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman-
but it giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother
there will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these
fits be upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food;
then leave me to my sorrows.'
'A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature'- and he
fumbled in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. 'There,
poor lad, take them, and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and
help me carry thy stricken brother to yon house, where-'
'I am not his brother,' said the king, interrupting.
'What! not his brother?'
'Oh, hear him!' groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. 'He
denies his own brother- and he with one foot in the grave!'
'Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For
shame!- and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy
brother, who is he, then?'
'A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your
pocket likewise. An thou wouldst do a healing miracle, lay thy staff
over his shoulders and trust Providence for the rest.'
But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up
and off like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the
hue and cry lustily as he went. The king, breathing deep gratitude
to Heaven for his own release, fled in the opposite direction and
did not slacken his pace until he was out of harm's reach. He took the
first road that offered, and soon put the village behind him. He
hurried along, as briskly as he could, during several hours, keeping a
nervous watch over his shoulder for pursuit; but his fears left him at
last, and a grateful sense of security took their place. He recognized
now that he was hungry; and also very tired. So he halted at a
farmhouse; but when he was about to speak, he was cut short and driven
rudely away. His clothes were against him.
He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put
himself in the way of light treatment no more. But hunger is pride's
master; so as the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another
farmhouse; but here he fared worse than before; for he was called hard
names and was promised arrest as a vagrant except he moved on
promptly.
The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore
monarch labored slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every
time he sat down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the
cold. All his sensations and experiences, as he moved through the
solemn gloom and the empty vastness of the night, were new and strange
to him. At intervals he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade
into silence; and as he saw nothing more of the bodies they belonged
to than a sort of formless drifting blur, there was something spectral
and uncanny about it all that made him shudder. Occasionally he caught
the twinkle of a light- always far away, apparently- almost in another
world; if he heard the tinkle of a sheep's bell, it was vague,
distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of the herds floated to him on
the night wind in vanishing cadences, a mournful sound; now and then
came the complaining howl of a dog over viewless expanses of field and
forest; all sounds were remote; they made the little king feel that
all life and activity were far removed from him, and that he stood
solitary, companionless, in the center of a measureless solitude.
He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new
experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry
leaves overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by
and by he came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern
near at hand. He stepped back into the shadows and waited. The lantern
stood by the open door of a barn. The king waited some time- there was
no sound, and nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and the
hospitable barn looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk
everything and enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as
he was crossing the threshold he heard voices behind him. He darted
behind a cask, within the barn, and stooped down. Two farm laborers
came in, bringing the lantern with them, and fell to work, talking
meanwhile. Whilst they moved about with the light, the king made
good use of his eyes and took the bearings of what seemed to be a
good-sized stall at the further end of the place, purposing to grope
his way to it when he should be left to himself. He also noted the
position of a pile of horse-blankets, midway of the route, with the
intent to levy upon them for the service of the crown of England for
one night.
By and by the men finished and went away, fastening the door
behind them and taking the lantern with them. The shivering king
made for the blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow;
gathered them up and then groped his way safely to the stall. Of two
of the blankets he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining
two. He was a glad monarch now, though the blankets were old and thin,
and not quite warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsy odor
that was almost suffocatingly powerful.
Although the king was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired
and so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the
advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of
semi-consciousness. Then, just as he was on the point of losing
himself wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him. He was broad
awake in a moment, and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that
mysterious touch in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay
motionless, and listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and
there was no sound. He continued to listen, and wait, during what
seemed a long time, but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound.
So he began to drop into a drowse once more at last; and all at once
he felt that mysterious touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light
touch from this noiseless and invisible presence; it made the boy sick
with ghostly fears. What should he do? That was the question; but he
did not know how to answer it. Should he leave these reasonably
comfortable quarters and fly from this inscrutable horror? But fly
whither? He could not get out of the barn; and the idea of scurrying
blindly hither and thither in the dark, within the captivity of the
four walls, with this phantom gliding after him, and visiting him with
that soft hideous touch upon cheek or shoulder at every turn, was
intolerable. But to stay where he was, and endure this living death
all night- was that better? No. What, then, was there left to do?
Ah, there was but one course; he knew it well- he must put out his
hand and find that thing!
It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up
to try it. Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the
dark gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp- not because
it had encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was
just going to. But the fourth time he groped a little further, and his
hand lightly swept against something soft and warm. This petrified him
nearly with fright- his mind was in such a state that he could imagine
the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.
He thought he would rather die than touch it again. But he thought
this false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of
human curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping
again- against his judgment, and without his consent- but groping
persistently on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair;
he shuddered, but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a
warm rope; followed up the rope and found an innocent calf; for the
rope was not a rope at all, but the calf's tail.
The king was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all
that fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf;
but he need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that
frightened him but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf
stood for; and any other boy, in those old superstitous times, would
have acted and suffered just as he had done.
The king was not only delighted to find that the creature was only
a calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been
feeling so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of
even this humble animal was welcome. And he had been so buffeted, so
rudely entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to
feel that he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that
had at least a soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier
attributes might be lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make
friends with the calf.
While stroking its sleek, warm back- for it lay near him and
within easy reach- it occurred to him that this calf might be utilized
in more ways than one. Whereupon he rearranged his bed, spreading it
down close to the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back,
drew the covers up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two
was as warm and comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches
of the regal palace of Westminster.
Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuler seeming.
He was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the
companionship of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm, he was
sheltered; in a word, he was happy. The night wind was rising; it
swept by in fitful gusts that made the old barn quake and rattle, then
its forces died down at intervals, and went moaning and wailing around
corners and projections- but it was all music to the king, now that he
was snug and comfortable; let it blow and rage, let it batter and
bang, let it moan and wail, he minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He
merely snuggled the closer to his friend, in a luxury of warm
contentment, and drifted blissfully out of consciousness into a deep
and dreamless sleep that was full of serenity and peace. The distant
dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained; and the winds went on
raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove along the roof; but the
majesty of England slept on undisturbed, and the calf did the same, it
being a simple creature and not easily troubled by storms or
embarrassed by sleeping with a king.
CHAPTER XIX
The Prince with the Peasants
WHEN the king awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet
but thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and
made a cozy bed for itself in his bosom. Being disturbed now, it
scampered away. The boy smiled, and said, 'Poor fool, why so
fearful? I am as forlorn as thou. 'Twould be a shame in me to hurt the
helpless, who am myself so helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for
a good omen; for when a king has fallen so low that the very rats do
make a bed of him, it surely meaneth that his fortunes be upon the
turn, since it is plain he can no lower go.'
He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the
sound of children's voices. The barn door opened and a couple of
little girls came in. As soon as they saw him their talking and
laughing ceased, and they stopped and stood still, gazing at him
with strong curiosity; they presently began to whisper together,
then they approached nearer, and stopped again to gaze and whisper. By
and by they gathered courage and began to discuss him aloud. One said:
'He hath a comely face.'
The other added:
'And pretty hair.'
'But is ill clothed enow.'
'And how starved he looketh.'
They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him,
examining him minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new
kind of animal; but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half
feared he might be a sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion.
Finally they halted before him, holding each other's hands for
protection, and took a good satisfying stare with their innocent eyes;
then one of them plucked up all her courage and inquired with honest
directness:
'Who art thou, boy?'
'I am the king,' was the grave answer.
The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves
wide open and remained so during a speechless half-minute. Then
curiosity broke the silence:
'The king? What king?'
'The king of England.'
The children looked at each other- then at him- then at each other
again- wonderingly, perplexedly- then one said:
'Didst hear him, Margery?- he saith he is the king. Can that be
true?'
'How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a lie? For look
you, Prissy, an it were not true, it would be a lie. It surely would
be. Now think on't. For all things that be not true, be lies- thou
canst make naught else out of it.'
It was a good, tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere;
and it left Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on. She considered
a moment, then put the king upon his honor with the simple remark:
'If thou art truly the king, then I believe thee.'
'I am truly the king.'
This settled the matter. His majesty's royalty was accepted
without further question or discussion, and the two little girls began
at once to inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he
came to be so unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all
about his affairs. It was a mighty relief to him to pour out his
troubles where they would not be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his
tale with feeling, forgetting even his hunger for the time; and it was
received with the deepest and tenderest sympathy by the gentle
little maids. But when he got down to his latest experiences and
they learned how long he had been without food, they cut him short and
hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a breakfast for him.
The king was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, 'When
I am come to mine own again, I will always honor little children,
remembering how that these trusted me and believed in me in my time of
trouble; whilst they that were older, and thought themselves wiser,
mocked at me and held me for a liar.'
The children's mother received the king kindly, and was full of
pity; for his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect
touched her womanly heart. She was a widow, and rather poor;
consequently she had seen trouble enough to enable her to feel for the
unfortunate. She imagined that the demented boy had wandered away from
his friends or keepers; so she tried to find out whence he had come,
in order that she might take measures to return him; but all her
references to neighbouring towns and villages, and all her inquiries
in the same line, went for nothing- the boy's face, and his answers,
too, showed that the things she was talking of were not familiar to
him. He spoke earnestly and simply about court matters; and broke
down, more than once, when speaking of the late king 'his father'; but
whenever the conversation changed to baser topics, he lost interest
and became silent.
The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up. As she
proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices to
surprise the boy into betraying his real secret. She talked about
cattle- he showed no concern; then about sheep- the same result- so
her guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked
about mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and
tradesmen of all sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails, and charitable
retreats; but no matter, she was baffled at all points. Not
altogether, either; for she argued that she had narrowed the thing
down to domestic service. Yes, she was sure she was on the right track
now- he must have been a house-servant. So she led up to that. But the
result was discouraging. The subject of sweeping appeared to weary
him; fire-building failed to stir him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no
enthusiasm. Then the goodwife touched, with a perishing hope, and
rather as a matter of form, upon the subject of cooking. To her
surprise, and her vast delight, the king's face lighted at once! Ah,
she had hunted him down at last, she thought; and she was right proud,
too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had accomplished it.
Her tired tongue got a chance to rest now; for the king's,
inspired by gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from
the sputtering pots and pans, turned itself loose and delivered itself
up to such an eloquent dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes,
that within three minutes the woman said to herself, 'Of a truth I was
right- he hath holpen in a kitchen!' Then he broadened his bill of
fare, and discussed it with such appreciation and animation, that
the goodwife said to herself, 'Good lack! how can he know so many
dishes, and so fine ones withal? For these belong only upon the tables
of the rich and great. Ah, now I see! ragged outcast as he is, he must
have served in the palace before his reason went astray; yes, he
must have helped in the very kitchen of the king himself! I will
test him.'
Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the king to mind
the cooking a moment- hinting that he might manufacture and add a dish
or two, if he chose- then she went out of the room and gave her
children a sign to follow after. The king muttered:
'Another English king had a commission like to this, in a bygone
time- it is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office which
the great Alfred stooped to assume. But I will try to better serve
my trust than he; for he let the cakes burn.'
The intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it;
for this king, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings
concerning his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted- the
cookery got burned. The woman returned in time to save the breakfast
from entire destruction; and she promptly brought the king out of
his dreams with a brisk and cordial tongue-lashing. Then, seeing how
troubled he was over his violated trust, she softened at once and
was all goodness and gentleness toward him.
The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly
refreshed and gladdened by it. It was a meal which was distinguished
by this curious feature, that rank was waived on both sides; yet
neither recipient of the favor was aware that it had been extended.
The goodwife had intended to feed this young tramp with broken
victuals in a corner, like any other tramp, or like a dog; but she was
so remorseful for the scolding she had given him, that she did what
she could to atone for it by allowing him to sit at the family table
and eat with his betters, on ostensible terms of equality with them;
and the king, on his side, was so remorseful for having broken his
trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that he forced
himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the family level,
instead of requiring the woman and her children to stand and wait upon
him while he occupied their table in the solitary state due his
birth and dignity. It does us all good to unbend sometimes. This
good woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses she got
out of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp; and the
king was just as self-complacent over his gracious humility toward a
humble peasant woman.
When breakfast was over, the housewife told the king to wash up
the dishes. This command was a staggerer for a moment, and the king
came near rebelling; but then he said to himself, 'Alfred the Great
watched the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes, too-
therefore will I essay it.'
He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise, too,
for the cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy
thing to do. It was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but he
finished it at last. He was becoming impatient to get away on his
journey now; however he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so
easily. She furnished him some little odds and ends of employment,
which he got through with after a fair fashion and with some credit.
Then she set him and the little girls to paring some winter apples;
but he was so awkward at this service that she retired him from it and
gave him a butcher-knife to grind. Afterward she kept him carding wool
until he began to think he had laid the good King Alfred about far
enough in the shade for the present, in the matter of showy menial
heroisms that would read picturesquely in story-books and histories,
and so he was half minded to resign. And when, just after the
noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a basket of kittens to drown, he
did resign. At least he was just going to resign- for he felt that
he must draw the line somewhere, and it seemed to him that to draw
it at kitten-drowning was about the right thing- when there was an
interruption. The interruption was John Canty- with a peddler's pack
on his back- and Hugo!
The king discovered these rascals approaching the front gate
before they had had a chance to see him; so he said nothing about
drawing the line, but took up his basket of kittens and stepped
quietly out the back way, without a word. He left the creatures in
an outhouse, and hurried on into a narrow lane at the rear.
CHAPTER XX
The Prince and the Hermit
THE high hedge hid him from the house now; and so, under the
impulse of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped
toward a wood in the distance. He never looked back until he had
almost gained the shelter of the forest; then he turned and descried
two figures in the distance. That was sufficient; he did not wait to
scan them critically, but hurried on, and never abated his pace till
he was far within the twilight depths of the wood. Then he stopped;
being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe. He listened
intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn- awful, even,
and depressing to the spirits. At wide intervals his straining ear did
detect sounds, but they were so remote, and hollow, and mysterious,
that they seemed not to be real sounds, but only the moaning and
complaining ghosts of departed ones. So the sounds were yet more
dreary than the silence which they interrupted.
It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was, the
rest of the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and
he was at last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm. He
struck straight through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road
presently, but he was disappointed in this. He traveled on and on; but
the farther he went, the denser the wood became, apparently. The gloom
began to thicken, by and by, and the king realized that the night
was coming on. It made him shudder to think of spending it in such
an uncanny place; so he tried to hurry faster, but he only made the
less speed, for he could not now see well enough to choose his steps
judiciously; consequently he kept tripping over roots and tangling
himself in vines and briers.
And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light!
He approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and
listen. It came from an unglazed window-opening in a little hut. He
heard a voice now, and felt a disposition to run and hide; but he
changed his mind at once, for his voice was praying, evidently. He
glided to the one window of the hut, raised himself on tiptoe, and
stole a glance within. The room was small; its floor was the natural
earth, beaten hard by use; in a corner was a bed of rushes and a
ragged blanket or two; near it was a pail, a cup, a basin, and two
or three pots and pans; there was a short bench and a three-legged
stool; on the hearth the remains of a fagot fire were smoldering;
before a shrine, which was lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged
man, and on an old wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human
skull. The man was of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers were
very long and snowy white; he was clothed in a robe of sheepskins
which reached from his neck to his heels.
'A holy hermit!' said the king to himself; 'now am I indeed
fortunate.'
The hermit rose from his knees; the king knocked. A deep voice
responded:
'Enter!- but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt
stand is holy!'
The king entered, and paused. The hermit turned a pair of
gleaming, unrestful eyes upon him, and said:
'Who art thou?'
'I am the king,' came the answer, with placid simplicity.
'Welcome, king!' cried the hermit, with enthusiasm. Then, bustling
about with feverish activity, and constantly saying 'Welcome,
welcome,' he arranged his bench, seated the king on it, by the hearth,
threw some fagots on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor,
with a nervous stride.
'Welcome! Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not
worthy, and were turned away. But a king who casts his crown away, and
despises the vain splendors of his office, and clothes his body in
rags, to devote his life to holiness and the mortification of the
flesh- he is worthy, he is welcome!- here shall he abide all his
days till death come.' The king hastened to interrupt and explain, but
the hermit paid no attention to him- did not even hear him apparently,
but went right on with his talk, with a raised voice and a growing
energy. 'And thou shalt be at peace here. None shall find out thy
refuge to disquiet thee with supplications to return to that empty and
foolish life which God hath moved thee to abandon. Thou shalt pray
here; thou shalt study the Book; thou shalt meditate upon the
follies and delusions of this world, and upon the sublimities of the
world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and scourge
thy body with whips daily, to the purifying of thy soul. Thou shalt
wear a hair shirt next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only; and thou
shalt be at peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek
thee shall go his way again baffled; he shall not find thee, he
shall not molest thee.'
The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud,
and began to mutter. The king seized this opportunity to state his
case; and he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and
apprehension. But the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed.
And still muttering, he approached the king and said, impressively:
''Sh! I will tell you a secret!' He bent down to impart it, but
checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude. After a moment or
two he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out and
peered around in the gloaming, then came tiptoeing back again, put his
face close down to the king's and whispered:
'I am an archangel!'
The king started violently, and said to himself, 'Would God I were
with the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a madman!'
His apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his
face. In a low, excited voice, the hermit continued:
'I see you feel my atmosphere! There's awe in your face! None
may be in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very
atmosphere of heaven. I go thither and return, in the twinkling of
an eye. I was made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years
ago, by angels sent from heaven to confer that awful dignity. Their
presence filled this place with an intolerable brightness. And they
knelt to me, king! yes, they knelt to me! for I was greater than they.
I have walked in the courts of heaven, and held speech with the
patriarchs. Touch my hand- be not afraid- touch it. There- now thou
hast touched a hand which has been clasped by Abraham, and Isaac,
and Jacob! For I have walked in the golden courts, I have seen the
Deity face to face!' He paused, to give this speech effect; then his
face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again, saying,
with angry energy, 'Yes, I am an archangel; a mere archangel!- I
that might have been pope! It is verily true. I was told it from
heaven in a dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope!- and I
should have been pope, for Heaven had said it- but the king
dissolved my religious house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was
cast homeless upon the world, robbed of my mighty destiny!' Here he
began to mumble again, and beat his forehead in futile rage, with
his fist; now and then articulating a venomous curse, and now and then
a pathetic 'Wherefore I am naught but an archangel- I that should have
been pope!'
So he went on for an hour, while the poor little king sat and
suffered. Then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he
became all gentleness. His voice softened, he came down out of his
clouds, and fell to prattling along so simply and so humanely, that he
soon won the king's heart completely. The old devotee moved the boy
nearer to the fire and made him comfortable; doctored his small
bruises and abrasions with a deft and tender hand; and then set
about preparing and cooking a supper- chatting pleasantly all the
time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek or patting his head,
in such a gently caressing way that in a little while all the fear and
repulsion inspired by the archangel were changed to reverence and
affection for the man.
This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper;
then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed,
in a small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as
a mother might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down
by the fire, and began to poke the brands about in an absent and
aimless way. Presently he paused; then tapped his forehead several
times with his fingers, as if trying to recall some thought which
had escaped from his mind. Apparently he was unsuccessful. Now he
started quickly up, and entered his guest's room, and said:
'Thou art king?'
'Yes,' was the response, drowsily uttered.
'What king?'
'Of England.'
'Of England. Then Henry is gone!'
'Alack, it is so. I am his son.'
A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched
his bony hands with a vindictive energy. He stood a few moments,
breathing fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice:
'Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless
and homeless?'
There was no response. The old man bent down and scanned the boy's
reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing. 'He sleeps-
sleeps soundly'; and the frown vanished away and gave place to an
expression of evil satisfaction. A smile flitted across the dreaming
boy's features. The hermit muttered, 'So- his heart is happy'; and
he turned away. He went stealthily about the place, seeking here and
there for something; now and then halting to listen, now and then
jerking his head around and casting a quick glance toward the bed; and
always muttering, always mumbling to himself. At last he found what he
seemed to want- a rusty old butcher-knife and a whetstone. Then he
crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began to whet
the knife softly on the stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating.
The winds sighed around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the
night floated by out of the distances. The shining eyes of venturesome
mice and rats peered out at the old man from cracks and coverts, but
he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and noted none of these
things.
At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife,
and nodded his head with satisfaction. 'It grows sharper,' he said;
'yes, it grows sharper.'
He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,
entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally
in articulate speech:
'His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us- and is gone down
into the eternal fires! Yes, down into the eternal fires! He escaped
us- but it was God's will, yes it was God's will, we must not
repine. But he hath not escaped the fires! no, he hath not escaped the
fires, the consuming, unpitying, remorseless fires- and they are
everlasting!'
And so he wrought; and still wrought; mumbling- chuckling a low
rasping chuckle at times- and at times breaking again into words:
'It was his father that did it all. I am but an archangel- but for
him, I should be pope!'
The king stirred. The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside,
and went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his
knife uplifted. The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an
instant, but there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the
next moment his tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound
once more.
The hermit watched and listened for a time, keeping his position
and scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arm, and
presently crept away, saying:
'It is long past midnight- it is not best that he should cry
out, lest by accident some one be passing.'
He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there,
and another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle
handling he managed to tie the king's ankles together without waking
him. Next he essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to
cross them, but the boy always drew one hand or the other away, just
as the cord was ready to be applied; but at last, when the archangel
was almost ready to despair, the boy crossed his hands himself, and
the next moment they were bound. Now a bandage was passed under the
sleeper's chin and brought up over his head and tied fast- and so
softly, so gradually, and so deftly were the knots drawn together
and compacted, that the boy slept peacefully through it all without
stirring.
CHAPTER XXI
Hendon to the Rescue
The old man glided away, stooping, stealthily, catlike, and
brought the low bench. He seated himself upon it, half his body in the
dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so, with
his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his patient
vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly whetted his
knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he
resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating
over some hapless insect that lay bound and helpless in his web.
After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing- yet not
seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction- observed on
a sudden that the boy's eyes were open- wide open and staring!-
staring up in frozen horror at the knife. The smile of a gratified
devil crept over the old man's face, and he said, without changing his
attitude or occupation:
'Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?'
The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds; and at the same time
forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit
chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.
'Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!'
A shudder shook the boy's frame, and his face blenched. Then he
struggled again to free himself- turning and twisting himself this way
and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately- but uselessly-
to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down
upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife,
mumbling, from time to time, 'The moments are precious, they are few
and precious- pray the prayer for the dying!'
The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,
panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down
his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon
the savage old man.
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up
sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice:
'I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already gone.
It seems but a moment- only a moment; would it had endured a year!
Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an thou
fearest to look upon...'
The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank
upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the
moaning boy-
Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin- the knife
dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and
started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently the
voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help;
then a clatter of swift footsteps retreating. Immediately came a
succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door, followed by:
'Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the devils!'
Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in
the king's ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice!
The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out
of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the
king heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the 'chapel':
'Homage and greeting, reverend sir! Where is the boy- my boy?'
'What boy, friend?'
'What boy! Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions! I am
not in the humor for it. Near to this place I caught the scoundrels
who I judged did steal him from me, and I made them confess; they said
he was at large again, and they had tracked him to your door. They
showed me his very footprints. Now palter no more; for look you,
holy sir, an thou produce him not- Where is the boy?'
'Oh, good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that
tarried here the night. If such as you take interest in such as he,
know, then, that I have sent him of an errand. He will be back anon.'
'How soon? How soon? Come, waste not the time- cannot I overtake
him? How soon will he be back?'
'Thou needst not stir; he will return quickly.'
'So be it then. I will try to wait. But stop!- you sent him of
an errand?- you! Verily, this is a lie- he would not go. He would pull
thy old beard, an thou didst offer him such an insolence. Thou hast
lied, friend; thou hast surely lied! He would not go for thee nor
for any man.'
'For any man- no; haply not. But I am not a man.'
'What! Now o' God's name what art thou, then?'
'It is a secret- mark thou reveal it not. I am an archangel!'
There was a tremendous ejaculation from Miles Hendon- not
altogether unprofane- followed by:
'This doth well and truly account for his complaisance! Right well
I knew he would budge nor hand nor foot in the menial service of any
mortal; but Lord, even a king must obey when an archangel gives the
word o' command! Let me- 'sh! What noise was that?'
All this while the king had been yonder, alternately quaking
with terror and trembling with hope; and all the while, too, he had
thrown all the strength he could into his anguished moanings,
constantly expecting them to reach Hendon's ear, but always realizing,
with bitterness, that they failed, or at least made no impression.
So this last remark of his servant came as comes a reviving breath
from fresh fields to the dying; and he exerted himself once more,
and with all his energy, just as the hermit was saying:
'Noise? I heard only the wind.'
'Mayhap it was. Yes, doubtless that was it. I have been hearing it
faintly all the- there it is again! It is not the wind! What an odd
sound! Come, we will hunt it out!'
Now, the king's joy was nearly insupportable. His tired lungs
did their utmost- and hopefully, too- but the sealed jaws and the
muffling sheepskin sadly crippled the effort. Then the poor fellow's
heart sank, to hear the hermit say:
'Ah, it came from without- I think from the copse yonder. Come,
I will lead the way.'
The king heard the two pass out talking; heard their footsteps die
quickly away- then he was alone with a boding, brooding, awful
silence.
It seemed an age till he heard the steps and voices approaching
again- and this time he heard an added sound- the trampling of
hoofs, apparently. Then he heard Hendon say:
'I will not wait longer. I cannot wait longer. He has lost his way
in this thick wood. Which direction took he? Quick- point it out to
me.'
'He- but wait; I will go with thee.'
'Good- good! Why, truly thou art better than thy looks. Marry, I
do think there's not another archangel with so right a heart as thine.
Wilt ride? Wilt take the wee donkey that's for my boy, or wilt thou
fork thy holy legs over this ill-conditioned slave of a mule that I
have provided for myself?- and had been cheated in, too, had he cost
but the indifferent sum of a month's usury on a brass farthing let
to a tinker out of work.'
'No- ride thy mule, and lead thine ass; I am surer on mine own
feet, and will walk.'
'Then, prithee, mind the little beast for me while I take my
life in my hands and make what success I may toward mounting the big
one.'
Then followed a confusion of kicks, cuffs, tramplings and
plungings, accompanied by a thunderous intermingling of volleyed
curses, and finally a bitter apostrophe to the mule, which must have
broken its spirit, for hostilities seemed to cease from that moment.
With unutterable misery the fettered little king heard the
voices and footsteps fade away and die out. All hope forsook him now
for the moment, and a dull despair settled down upon his heart. 'My
only friend is deceived and got rid of,' he said; 'the hermit will
return and-' He finished with a gasp; and at once fell to struggling
so frantically with his bonds again, that he shook off the
smothering sheepskin.
And now he heard the door open! The sound chilled him to the
marrow- already he seemed to feel the knife at his throat. Horror made
him close his eyes; horror made him open them again- and before him
stood John Canty and Hugo!
He would have said 'Thank God!' if his jaws had been free.
A moment or two later his limbs were at liberty, and his
captors, each gripping him by an arm, were hurrying him with all speed
through the forest.
CHAPTER XXII
A Victim of Treachery
ONCE more 'King Foo-foo the First' was roving with the tramps
and outlaws, a butt for their coarse jests and dull-witted railleries,
and sometimes the victim of small spitefulnesses at the hands of Canty
and Hugo when the Ruffler's back was turned. None but Canty and Hugo
really disliked him. Some of the others liked him, and all admired his
pluck and spirit. During two or three days, Hugo, in whose ward and
charge the king was, did what he covertly could to make the boy
uncomfortable; and at night, during the customary orgies, he amused
the company by putting small indignities upon him- always as if by
accident. Twice he stepped upon the king's toes- accidentally- and the
king, as became his royalty, was contemptuously unconscious of it
and indifferent to it; but the third time Hugo entertained himself
in that way, the king felled him to the ground with a cudgel, to the
prodigious delight of the tribe. Hugo, consumed with anger and
shame, sprang up, seized a cudgel, and came at his small adversary
in a fury. Instantly a ring was formed around the gladiators, and
the betting and cheering began. But poor Hugo stood no chance
whatever. His frantic and lubberly 'prentice-work found but a poor
market for itself when pitted against an arm which had been trained by
the first masters of Europe in single-stick, quarter-staff, and
every art and trick of swordsmanship. The little king stood, alert but
at graceful ease, and caught and turned aside the thick rain of
blows with a facility and precision which set the motley onlookers
wild with admiration; and every now and then, when his practised eye
detected an opening, and a lightning-swift rap upon Hugo's head
followed as a result, the storm of cheers and laughter that swept
the place was something wonderful to hear. At the end of fifteen
minutes, Hugo, all battered, bruised, and the target for a pitiless
bombardment of ridicule, slunk from the field; and the unscathed
hero of the fight was seized and borne aloft upon the shoulders of the
joyous rabble to the place of honor beside the Ruffler, where with
vast ceremony he was crowned King of the Game-Cocks; his meaner
title being at the same time solemnly canceled and annulled, and a
decree of banishment from the gang pronounced against any who should
henceforth utter it.
All attempts to make the king serviceable to the troop had failed.
He had stubbornly refused to act; moreover, he was always trying to
escape. He had been thrust into an unwatched kitchen, the first day of
his return; he not only came forth empty-handed, but tried to rouse
the housemates. He was sent out with a tinker to help him at his work;
he would not work; moreover, he threatened the tinker with his own
soldering-iron; and finally both Hugo and the tinker found their hands
full with the mere matter of keeping him from getting away. He
delivered the thunders of his royalty upon the heads of all who
hampered his liberties or tried to force him to service. He was sent
out, in Hugo's charge, in company with a slatternly woman and a
diseased baby, to beg; but the result was not encouraging- he declined
to plead for the mendicants, or be a party to their cause in any way.
Thus several days went by; and the miseries of this tramping life,
and the weariness and sordidness and meanness and vulgarity of it,
became gradually and steadily so intolerable to the captive that he
began at last to feel that his release from the hermit's knife must
prove only a temporary respite from death, at best.
But at night, in his dreams, these things were forgotten, and he
was on his throne, and master again. This, of course, intensified
the sufferings of the awakening- so the mortifications of each
succeeding morning of the few that passed between his return to
bondage and the combat with Hugo, grew bitterer, and harder and harder
to bear.
The morning after that combat, Hugo got up with a heart filled
with vengeful purposes against the king. He had two plans in
particular. One was to inflict upon the lad what would be, to his
proud spirit and 'imagined' royalty, a peculiar humiliation; and if he
failed to accomplish this, his other plan was to put a crime of some
kind upon the king and then betray him into the implacable clutches of
the law.
In pursuance of the first plan, he proposed to put a 'clime'
upon the king's leg, rightly judging that that would mortify him to
the last and perfect degree; and as soon as the clime should
operate, he meant to get Canty's help, and force the king to expose
his leg in the highway and beg for alms. 'Clime' was the cant term for
a sore, artificially created. To make a clime, the operator made a
paste or poultice of unslaked lime, soap, and the rust of old iron,
and spread it upon a piece of leather, which was then bound tightly
upon the leg. This would presently fret off the skin, and make the
flesh raw and angry-looking; blood was then rubbed upon the limb,
which, being fully dried, took on a dark and repulsive color. Then a
bandage of soiled rags was put on in a cleverly careless way which
would allow the hideous ulcer to be seen and move the compassion of
the passer-by.(18)
Hugo got the help of the tinker whom the king had cowed with the
soldering-iron; they took the boy out on a tinkering tramp, and as
soon as they were out of sight of the camp they threw him down and the
tinker held him while Hugo bound the poultice tight and fast upon
his leg.
The king raged and stormed, and promised to hang the two the
moment the scepter was in his hand again; but they kept a firm grip
upon him and enjoyed his impotent struggling and jeered at his
threats. This continued until the poultice began to bite; and in no
long time its work would have been perfected, if there had been no
interruption. But there was; for about this time the 'slave' who had
made the speech denouncing England's laws, appeared on the scene and
put an end to the enterprise, and stripped off the poultice and
bandage.
The king wanted to borrow his deliverer's cudgel and warm the
jackets of the two rascals on the spot; but the man said no, it
would bring trouble- leave the matter till night; the whole, tribe
being together, then, the outside world would not venture to interfere
or interrupt. He marched the party back to camp and reported the
affair to the Ruffler, who listened, pondered, and then decided that
the king should not be again detailed to beg, since it was plain he
was worthy of something higher and better- wherefore, on the spot he
promoted him from the mendicant rank and appointed him to steal!
Hugo was overjoyed. He had already tried to make the king steal,
and failed; but there would be no more trouble of that sort now,
for, of course, the king would not dream of defying a distinct command
delivered directly from headquarters. So he planned a raid for that
very afternoon, purposing to get the king in the law's grip in the
course of it; and to do it, too, with such ingenious strategy, that it
should seem to be accidental and unintentional; for the King of the
Game-Cocks was popular now, and the gang might not deal over-gently
with an unpopular member who played so serious a treachery upon him as
the delivering him over to the common enemy, the law.
Very well. All in good time Hugo strolled off to a neighboring
village with his prey; and the two drifted slowly up and down one
street after another, the one watching sharply for a sure chance to
achieve his evil purpose, and the other watching as sharply for a
chance to dart away and get free of his infamous captivity forever.
Both threw away some tolerably fair-looking opportunities; for
both, in their secret hearts, were resolved to make absolutely sure
work this time, and neither meant to allow his fevered desires to
seduce him into any venture that had much uncertainty about it.
Hugo's chance came first. For at last a woman approached who
carried a fat package of some sort in a basket. Hugo's eyes sparkled
with sinful pleasure as he said to himself, 'Breath o' my life, an I
can but put that upon him, 'tis good-den and God keep thee, King of
the Game-Cocks!' He waited and watched- outwardly patient, but
inwardly consuming with excitement- till the woman had passed by,
and the time was ripe; then said, in a low voice; 'Tarry here till I
come again,' and darted stealthily after the prey.
The king's heart was filled with joy- he could make his escape
now, if Hugo's quest only carried him far enough away.
But he was to have no such luck. Hugo crept behind the woman,
snatched the package, and came running back, wrapping it in an old
piece of blanket which he carried on his arm. The hue and cry was
raised in a moment by the woman, who knew her loss by the lightening
of her burden, although she had not seen the pilfering done. Hugo
thrust the bundle into the king's hands without halting, saying:
'Now speed ye after me with the rest, and cry "Stop thief!" but
mind ye lead them astray.'
The next moment Hugo turned a corner and darted down a crooked
alley- and in another moment or two he lounged into view again,
looking innocent and indifferent, and took up a position behind a post
to watch results.
The insulted king threw the bundle on the ground; and the
blanket fell away from it just as the woman arrived, with an
augmenting crowd at her heels; she seized the king's wrist with one
hand, snatched up her bundle with the other, and began to pour out a
tirade of abuse upon the boy while he struggled, without success, to
free himself from her grip.
Hugo had seen enough- his enemy was captured and the law would get
him now- so he slipped away, jubilant and chuckling and wended
campward, framing a judicious version of the matter to give to the
Ruffler's crew as he strode along.
The king continued to struggle in the woman's grasp, and now and
then cried out, in vexation:
'Unhand me, thou foolish creature; it was not I that bereaved thee
of thy paltry goods.'
The crowd closed around, threatening the king and calling him
names; a brawny blacksmith in leather apron, and sleeves rolled to his
elbows, made a reach for him, saying he would trounce him well, for
a lesson; but just then a long sword flashed in the air and fell
with convincing force upon the man's arm, flat-side down, the
fantastic owner of it remarking, pleasantly at the same time:
'Marry, good souls, let us proceed gently, not with ill blood
and uncharitable words. This is matter for the law's consideration,
not private and unofficial handling. Loose thy hold from the boy,
goodwife.'
The blacksmith averaged the stalwart soldier with a glance, then
went muttering away, rubbing his arm; the woman released the boy's
wrist reluctantly; the crowd eyed the stranger unlovingly, but
prudently closed their mouths. The king sprang to his deliverer's
side, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes exclaiming:
'Thou hast lagged sorely, but thou comest in good season now,
Sir Miles; carve me this rabble to rags!'
CHAPTER XXIII
The Prince a Prisoner
HENDON forced back a smile, and bent down and whispered in the
king's ear:
'Softly, softly my prince, wag thy tongue warily- nay, suffer it
not to wag at all. Trust in me- all shall go well in the end.' Then he
added, to himself: 'Sir Miles! Bless me, I had totally forgot I was
a knight! Lord how marvelous a thing it is, the grip his memory doth
take upon his quaint and crazy fancies!... An empty and foolish
title is mine, and yet it is something to have deserved it, for I
think it is more honor to be held worthy to be a specter-knight in his
Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows, than to be held base enough to be an
earl in some of the real kingdoms of this world.'
The crowd fell apart to admit a constable, who approached and
was about to lay his hand upon the king's shoulder, when Hendon said:
'Gently, good friend, withhold your hand- he shall go peaceably; I
am responsible for that. Lead on, we will follow.'
The officer led, with the woman and her bundle; Miles and the king
followed after, with the crowd at their heels. The king was inclined
to rebel; but Hendon said to him in a low voice:
'Reflect, sire- your laws are the wholesome breath of your own
royalty; shall their source reject them, yet require the branches to
respect them? Apparently, one of these laws has been broken; when
the king is on his throne again, can it ever grieve him to remember
that when he was seemingly a private person he loyally sunk the king
in the citizen and submitted to its authority?'
'Thou art right; say no more; thou shalt see that whatsoever the
king of England requires a subject to suffer under the law, he will
himself suffer while he holdeth the station of a subject.'
When the woman was called upon to testify before the justice of
the peace, she swore that the small prisoner at the bar was the person
who had committed the theft; there was none able to show the contrary,
so the king stood convicted. The bundle was now unrolled, and when the
contents proved to be a plump little dressed pig, the judge looked
troubled, while Hendon turned pale, and his body was thrilled with
an electric shiver of dismay; but the king remained unmoved, protected
by his ignorance. The judge meditated, during an ominous pause, then
turned to the woman, with question:
'What dost thou hold this property to be worth?'
The woman courtesied and replied:
'Three shillings and eightpence, your worship- I could not abate a
penny and set forth the value honestly.'
The justice glanced around uncomfortably upon the crowd, then
nodded to the constable and said:
'Clear the court and close the doors.'
It was done. None remained but the two officials, the accused, the
accuser, and Miles Hendon. This latter was rigid and colorless, and on
his forehead big drops of cold sweat gathered, broke and blended
together, and trickled down his face. The judge turned to the woman
again, and said, in a compassionate voice:
''Tis a poor ignorant lad, and mayhap was driven hard by hunger,
for these be grievous times for the unfortunate; mark you, he hath not
an evil face- but when hunger driveth- Good woman! dost know that when
one steals a thing above the value of thirteen pence ha'penny the
law saith he shall hang for it?'
The little king started, wide-eyed with consternation, but
controlled himself and held his peace; but not so the woman. She
sprang to her feet, shaking with fright and cried out:
'Oh, good lack, what have I done! God-a-mercy, I would not hang
the poor thing for the whole world! Ah, save me from this, your
worship- what shall I do, what can I do?'
The justice maintained his judicial composure, and simply said:
'Doubtless it is allowable to revise the value, since it is not
yet writ upon the record.'
'Then in God's name call the pig eightpence, and heaven bless
the day that freed my conscience of this awesome thing!'
Miles Hendon forgot all decorum in his delight; and surprised
the king and wounded his dignity by throwing his arms around him and
hugging him.
The woman made her grateful adieux and started away with her
pig; and when the constable opened the door for her, he followed her
out into the narrow hall. The justice proceeded to write in his
record-book. Hendon, always alert, thought he would like to know why
the officer followed the woman out; so he slipped softly into the
dusky hall and listened. He heard a conversation to this effect:
'It is a fat pig, and promises good eating; I will buy it of thee;
here is the eightpence.'
'Eightpence, indeed! Thou'lt do no such thing. It cost me three
shillings and eightpence, good honest coin of the last reign, that old
Harry that's just dead ne'er touched nor tampered with. A fig for
thy eightpence!'
'Stands the wind in that quarter? Thou wast under oath, and so
swore falsely when thou saidst the value was but eightpence. Come
straightway back with me before his worship, and answer for the
crime!- and then the lad will hang.'
'There, there, dear heart, say no more, I am content. Give me
the eightpence, and hold thy peace about the matter.'
The woman went off crying; Hendon slipped back into the courtroom,
and the constable presently followed, after hiding his prize in some
convenient place. The justice wrote a while longer, then read the king
a wise and kindly lecture, and sentenced him to a short imprisonment
in the common jail, to be followed by a public flogging. The astounded
king opened his mouth and was probably going to order the good judge
to be beheaded on the spot; but he caught a warning sign from
Hendon, and succeeded in closing his mouth again before he lost
anything out of it. Hendon took him by the hand, now made reverence to
the justice, and the two departed in the wake of the constable
toward the jail. The moment the street was reached, the inflamed
monarch halted, snatched away his hand, and exclaimed:
'Idiot, dost imagine I will enter a common jail alive?'
Hendon bent down and said, somewhat sharply:
'Will you trust in me? Peace! and forbear to worsen our chances
with dangerous speech. What God wills, will happen; thou canst not
hurry it, thou canst not alter it; therefore wait; and be patient-
'twill be time enow to rail or rejoice when what is to happen has
happened.'(19)
CHAPTER XXIV
The Escape
THE short winter day was nearly ended. The streets were
deserted, save for a few random stragglers, and these hurried straight
along, with the intent look of people who were only anxious to
accomplish their errands as quickly as possible and then snugly
house themselves from the rising wind and the gathering twilight. They
looked neither to the right nor to the left; they paid no attention to
our party, they did not even seem to see them. Edward the Sixth
wondered if the spectacle of a king on his way to jail had ever
encountered such marvelous indifference before. By and by the
constable arrived at a deserted market-square and proceeded to cross
it. When he had reached the middle of it, Hendon laid his hand upon
his arm, and said in a low voice:
'Bide a moment, good sir, there is none in hearing, and I would
say a word to thee.'
'My duty forbids it, sir; prithee, hinder me not, the night
comes on.'
'Stay, nevertheless, for the matter concerns thee nearly. Turn thy
back moment and seem not to see; let this poor lad escape.'
'This to me, sir! I arrest thee in-'
'Nay, be not too hasty. See thou be careful and commit no
foolish error'- then he shut his voice down to a whisper, and said
in the man's ear- 'the pig thou hast purchased for eightpence may cost
thee thy neck, man!'
The poor constable, taken by surprise, was speechless at first,
then found his tongue and fell to blustering and threatening; but
Hendon was tranquil, and waited with patience till his breath was
spent; then said:
'I have a liking to thee, friend, and would not willingly see thee
come to harm. Observe, I heard it all- every word. I will prove it
to thee.' Then he repeated the conversation which the officer and
the woman had had together in the hall, word for word, and ended with:
'There- have I set it forth correctly? Should not I be able to set
it forth correctly before the judge, if occasion required?'
The man was dumb with fear and distress for a moment; then he
rallied and said with forced lightness:
''Tis making a mighty matter indeed, out of a jest; I but
plagued the woman for mine amusement.'
'Kept you the woman's pig for amusement?'
The man answered sharply:
'Naught else, good sir- I tell thee 'twas but a jest.'
'I do begin to believe thee,' said Hendon, with a perplexing
mixture of mockery and half-conviction in his tone; 'tarry thou here a
moment whilst I run and ask his worship- for nathless, he being a
man experienced in law, in jests, in-'
He was moving away, still talking; the constable hesitated,
fidgeted, spat an oath or two, then cried out:
'Hold, hold, good sir- prithee, wait a little- the judge! why man,
he hath no more sympathy with a jest than hath a dead corpse!- come,
and we will speak further. Ods body! I seem to be in evil case- and
all for an innocent and thoughtless pleasantry. I am a man of
family; and my wife and little ones- List to reason, good your
worship; what wouldst thou of me?'
'Only that thou be blind and dumb and paralytic whilst one may
count a hundred thousand- counting slowly,' said Hendon, with the
expression of a man who asks but a reasonable favor, and that a very
little one.
'It is my destruction!' said the constable despairingly. 'Ah, be
reasonable, good sir; only look at this matter, on all its sides,
and see how mere a jest it is- how manifestly and how plainly it is
so. And even if one granted it were not a jest, it is a fault so small
that e'en the grimmest penalty it could call forth would be but a
rebuke and warning from the judge's lips.'
Hendon replied with a solemnity which chilled the air about him:
'This jest of thine hath a name in law- wot you what it is?'
'I knew it not! Peradventure I have been unwise. I never dreamed
it had a name- ah, sweet heaven, I thought it was original.'
'Yes, it hath a name. In the law this crime is called Non compos
mentis lex talionis sic transit gloria Mundi.'
'Ah, my God!'
'And the penalty is death!'
'God be merciful to me, a sinner!'
'By advantage taken of one in fault, in dire peril, and at thy
mercy, thou hast seized goods worth above thirteen pence ha'penny,
paying but a trifle for the same; and this, in the eye of the law,
is constructive barratry, misprision of treason, malfeasance in
office, ad hominem expurgatis in statu quo- and the penalty is death
by the halter, without ransom, commutation, or benefit of clergy.'
'Bear me up, bear me up, sweet sir, my legs do fail me! Be thou
merciful- spare me this doom, and I will turn my back and see naught
that shall happen.'
'Good! now thou'rt wise and reasonable. And thou'lt restore the
pig?'
'I will, I will, indeed- nor ever touch another, though heaven
send it and archangel fetch it. Go- I am blind for thy sake- I see
nothing. I will say thou didst break in and wrest the prisoner from my
hands by force. It is but a crazy, ancient door- I will batter it down
myself betwixt midnight and the morning.'
'Do it, good soul, no harm will come of it; the judge hath a
loving charity for this poor lad, and will shed no tears and break
no jailer's bones for his escape.'
CHAPTER XXV
Hendon Hall
AS soon as Hendon and the king were out of sight of the constable,
his majesty was instructed to hurry to a certain place outside the
town, and wait there, whilst Hendon should go to the inn and settle
his account. Half an hour later the two friends were blithely
jogging eastward on Hendon's sorry steeds. The king was warm and
comfortable now, for he had cast his rags and clothed himself in the
second-hand suit which Hendon had bought on London Bridge.
Hendon wished to guard against over-fatiguing the boy; he judged
that hard journeys, irregular meals, and illiberal measures of sleep
would be bad for his crazed mind, while rest, regularity, and moderate
exercise would be pretty sure to hasten its cure; he longed to see the
stricken intellect made well again and its diseased visions driven out
of the tormented little head; therefore he resolved to move by easy
stages toward the home whence he had so long been banished, instead of
obeying the impulse of his impatience and hurrying along night and
day.
When he and the king had journeyed about ten miles, they reached a
considerable village, and halted there for the night, at a good inn.
The former relations were resumed; Hendon stood behind the king's
chair while he dined, and waited upon him; undressed him when he was
ready for bed; then took the floor for his own quarters, and slept
athwart the door, rolled up in a blanket.
The next day, and the next day after, they jogged lazily along
talking over the adventures they had met since their separation, and
mightily enjoying each other's narratives. Hendon detailed all his
wide wanderings in search of the king, and described how the archangel
had led him a fool's journey all over the forest, and taken him back
to the hut finally, when he found he could not get rid of him. Then-
he said- the old man went into the bed-chamber and came staggering
back looking broken-hearted, and saying he had expected to find that
the boy had returned and lain down in there to rest, but it was not
so. Hendon had waited at the hut all day; hope of the king's return
died out then, and he departed upon the quest again.
'And old Sanctum Sanctorum was truly sorry your Highness came
not back,' said Hendon; 'I saw it in his face.'
'Marry, I will never doubt that!' said the king- and then told his
own story; after which Hendon was sorry he had not destroyed the
archangel.
During the last day of the trip, Hendon's spirits were soaring.
His tongue ran constantly. He talked about his old father, and his
brother Arthur, and told of many things which illustrated their high
and generous characters; he went into loving frenzies over his
Edith, and was so glad-hearted that he was even able to say some
gentle and brotherly things about Hugh. He dwelt a deal on the
coming meeting at Hendon Hall; what a surprise it would be to
everybody, and what an outburst of thanksgiving and delight there
would be.
It was a fair region, dotted with cottages and orchards, and the
road led through broad pasture-lands whose receding expanses, marked
with gentle elevations and depressions, suggested the swelling and
subsiding undulations of the sea. In the afternoon the returning
prodigal made constant deflections from his course to see if by
ascending some hillock he might not pierce the distance and catch a
glimpse of his home. At last he was successful, and cried out
excitedly:
'There is the village, my prince, and there is the Hall close
by! You may see the towers from here; and that wood there- that is
my father's park. Ah, now thou'lt know what state and grandeur be! A
house with seventy rooms- think of that!- and seven and twenty
servants! A brave lodging for such as we, is it not so? Come, let us
speed- my impatience will not brook further delay.'
All possible hurry was made; still, it was after three o'clock
before the village was reached. The travelers scampered through it,
Hendon's tongue going all the time. 'Here is the church- covered
with the same ivy- none gone, none added.' 'Yonder is the inn, the old
Red Lion- and yonder is the market-place.' 'Here is the Maypole, and
here the pump- nothing is altered; nothing but the people, at any
rate; ten years make a change in people; some of these I seem to know,
but none know me.' So his chat ran on. The end of the village was soon
reached; then the travelers struck into a crooked, narrow road, walled
in with tall hedges, and hurried briskly along it for a half-mile,
then passed into a vast flower-garden through an imposing gateway
whose huge stone pillars bore sculptured armorial devices. A noble
mansion was before them.
'Welcome to Hendon Hall, my king!' exclaimed Miles. 'Ah, 'tis a
great day! My father and my brother and the Lady Edith will be so
mad with joy that they will have eyes and tongue for none but me in
the first transports of the meeting, and so thou'lt seem but coldly
welcomed- but mind it not; 'twill soon seem otherwise; for when I
say thou art my ward, and tell them how costly is my love for thee,
thou'lt see them take thee to their breasts for Miles Hendon's sake,
and make their house and hearts thy home forever after!'
The next moment Hendon sprang to the ground before the great door,
helped the king down, then took him by the hand and rushed within. A
few steps brought him to a spacious apartment; he entered, seated
the king with more hurry than ceremony, then ran toward a young man
who sat at a writing-table in front of a generous fire of logs.
'Embrace me, Hugh,' he cried, 'and say thou'rt glad I am come
again! and call our father, for home is not home till I shall touch
his hand, and see his face, and hear his voice once more!'
But Hugh only drew back, after betraying a momentary surprise, and
bent a grave stare upon the intruder- a stare which indicated somewhat
of offended dignity at first, then changed, in response to some inward
thought or purpose, to an expression of marveling curiosity, mixed
with a real or assumed compassion. Presently he said, in a mild voice:
'Thy wits seem touched, poor stranger; doubtless thou hast
suffered privations and rude buffetings at the world's hands; thy
looks and dress betoken it. Whom dost thou take me to be?'
'Take thee? Prithee, for whom else than whom thou art? I take thee
to be Hugh Hendon,' said Miles, sharply.
The other continued, in the same soft tone:
'And whom dost thou imagine thyself to be?'
'Imagination hath naught to do with it! Dost thou pretend thou
knowest me not for thy brother Miles Hendon?'
An expression of pleased surprise flitted across Hugh's face,
and he exclaimed:
'What! thou art not jesting! can the dead come to life? God be
praised if it be so! Our poor lost boy restored to our arms after
all these cruel years! Ah, it seems too good to be true, it is too
good to be true- I charge thee, have pity, do not trifle with me!
Quick- come to the light- let me scan thee well!'
He seized Miles by the arm, dragged him to the window, and began
to devour him from head to foot with his eyes, turning him this way
and that, and stepping briskly around him and about him to prove him
from all points of view; whilst the returned prodigal, all aglow
with gladness, smiled, laughed, and kept nodding his head and saying:
'Go on, brother, go on, and fear not; thou'lt find nor limb nor
feature that cannot bide the test. Scour and scan me to thy content,
my dear old Hugh- I am indeed thy old Miles, thy same old Miles, thy
lost brother, is't not so? Ah, 'tis a great day- I said 'twas a
great day! Give me thy hand, give me thy cheek- lord, I am like to die
of very joy!'
He was about to throw himself upon his brother; but Hugh put up
his hand in dissent, then dropped his chin mournfully upon his breast,
saying with emotion:
'Ah, God of his mercy give me strength to bear this grievous
disappointment!'
Miles, amazed, could not speak for a moment; then he found his
tongue, and cried out:
'What disappointment? Am I not thy brother?'
Hugh shook his head sadly, and said:
'I pray heaven it may prove so, and that other eyes may find the
resemblances that are hid from mine. Alack, I fear me the letter spoke
but too truly.'
'What letter?'
'One that came from oversea, some six or seven years ago. It
said my brother died in battle.'
'It was a lie! Call thy father- he will know me.'
'One may not call the dead.'
'Dead?' Miles's voice was subdued, and his lips trembled. 'My
father dead!- oh, this is heavy news. Half my new joy is withered now.
Prithee, let me see my brother Arthur- he will know me; he will know
me and console me.'
'He, also, is dead.'
'God be merciful to me, a stricken man! Gone- both gone- the
worthy taken and the worthless spared in me! Ah! I crave your
mercy!- do not say the Lady Edith-'
'Is dead? No, she lives.'
'Then God be praised, my joy is whole again! Speed thee,
brother- let her come to me! An she say I am not myself- but she
will not; no, no, she will know me, I were a fool to doubt it. Bring
her- bring the old servants; they, too, will know me.'
'All are gone but five- Peter, Halsey, David, Bernard, and
Margaret.'
So saying, Hugh left the room. Miles stood musing awhile, then
began to walk the floor, muttering:
'The five arch villains have survived the two-and-twenty leal
and honest- 'tis an odd thing.'
He continued walking back and forth, muttering to himself; he
had forgotten the king entirely. By and by his majesty said gravely,
and with a touch of genuine compassion, though the words themselves
were capable of being interpreted ironically:
'Mind not thy mischance, good man; there be others in the world
whose identity is denied, and whose claims are derided. Thou hast
company.'
'Ah, my king,' cried Hendon, coloring slightly, 'do not thou
condemn me- wait, and thou shalt see. I am no impostor- she will say
it; you shall hear it from the sweetest lips in England. I an
impostor? Why I know this old hall, these pictures of my ancestors,
and all these things that are about us, as a child knoweth its own
nursery. Here was I born and bred, my lord; I speak the truth; I would
not deceive thee; and should none else believe, I pray thee do not
thou doubt me- I could not bear it.'
'I do not doubt thee,' said the king, with a childlike
simplicity and faith.
'I thank thee out of my heart!' exclaimed Hendon, with a
fervency which showed that he was touched. The king added, with the
same gentle simplicity:
'Dost thou doubt me?'
A guilty confusion seized upon Hendon, and he was grateful that
the door opened to admit Hugh, at that moment, and saved him the
necessity of replying.
A beautiful lady, richly clothed, followed Hugh, and after her
came several liveried servants. The lady walked slowly, with her
head bowed and her eyes fixed upon the floor. The face was unspeakably
sad. Miles Hendon sprang forward, crying out:
'Oh, my Edith, my darling-'
But Hugh waved him back, gravely, and said to the lady:
'Look upon him. Do you know him?'
At the sound of Miles's voice the woman had started slightly,
and her cheeks had flushed; she was trembling now. She stood still,
during an impressive pause of several moments; then slowly lifted up
her head and looked into Hendon's eyes with a stony and frightened
gaze; the blood sank out of her face, drop by drop, till nothing
remained but the gray pallor of death; then she said, in a voice as
dead as the face, 'I know him not!' and turned, with a moan and
stifled sob, and tottered out of the room.
Miles Hendon sank into a chair and covered his face with his
hands. After a pause, his brother said to the servants:
'You have observed him. Do you know him?'
They shook their heads; then the master said:
'The servants know you not, sir. I fear there is some mistake. You
have seen that my wife knew you not.'
'Thy wife!' In an instant Hugh was pinned to the wall, with an
iron grip about his throat. 'Oh, thou fox-hearted slave, I see it all!
Thou'st writ the lying letter thyself, and my stolen bride and goods
are its fruit. There- now get thee gone, lest I shame mine honorable
soldiership with the slaying of so pitiful a manikin!'
Hugh, red-faced and almost suffocated, reeled to the nearest
chair, and commanded the servants to seize and bind the murderous
stranger. They hesitated, and one of them said:
'He is armed, Sir Hugh, and we are weaponless.'
'Armed? What of it, and ye so many? Upon him, I say!'
But Miles warned them to be careful what they did, and added:
'Ye know me of old- I have not changed; come oh, an it like you.'
This reminder did not hearten the servants much; they still held
back.
'Then go, ye paltry cowards, and arm yourselves and guard the
doors, while I send one to fetch the watch,' said Hugh. He turned,
at the threshold, and said to Miles, 'You'll find it to your advantage
to offend not with useless endeavours at escape.'
'Escape? Spare thyself discomfort, an that is all that troubles
thee. For Miles Hendon is master of Hendon Hall and all its
belongings. He will remain- doubt it not.'
CHAPTER XXVI
Disowned
THE king sat musing a few moments, then looked up and said:
''Tis strange- most strange. I cannot account for it.'
'No, it is not strange, my liege. I know him, and this conduct
is but natural. He was a rascal from his birth.'
'Oh, I spake not of him, Sir Miles.'
'Not of him? Then of what? What is it that is strange?'
'That the king is not missed.'
'How? Which? I doubt I do not understand.'
'Indeed! Doth it not strike you as being passing strange that
the land is not filled with couriers and proclamations describing my
person and making search for me? Is it no matter for commotion and
distress that the head of the state is gone?- that I am vanished
away and lost?'
'Most true, my king, I had forgot.' Then Hendon sighed, and
muttered to himself. 'Poor ruined mind- still busy with its pathetic
dream.'
'But I have a plan that shall right us both. I will write a paper,
in three tongues- Latin, Greek, and English- and thou shall haste away
with it to London in the morning. Give it to none but my uncle, the
Lord Hertford; when he shall see it, he will know and say I wrote
it. Then he will send for me.'
'Might it not be best, my prince, that we wait here until I
prove myself and make my rights secure to my domains? I should be so
much the better able then to-'
The king interrupted him imperiously:
'Peace! What are thy paltry domains, thy trivial interests,
contrasted with matters which concern the weal of a nation and the
integrity of a throne!' Then he added, in a gentle voice, as if he
were sorry for his severity, 'Obey and have no fear; I will right
thee, I will make thee whole- yes, more than whole. I shall
remember, and requite.'
So saying, he took the pen, and set himself to work. Hendon
contemplated him lovingly awhile, then said to himself:
'An it were dark, I should think it was a king that spoke; there's
no denying it, when the humor's upon him he doth thunder and lighten
like your true king- now where got he that trick? See him scribble and
scratch away contentedly at his meaningless pot-hooks, fancying them
to be Latin and Greek- and except my wit shall serve me with a lucky
device for diverting him from his purpose, I shall be forced to
pretend to post away to-morrow on this wild errand which he hath
invented for me.'
The next moment Sir Miles's thoughts had gone back to the recent
episode. So absorbed was he in his musings, that when the king
presently handed him the paper which he had been writing, he
received it and pocketed it without being conscious of the act. 'How
marvelous strange she acted,' he muttered. 'I think she knew me- and I
think she did not know me. These opinions do conflict, I perceive it
plainly; I cannot reconcile them, neither can I, by argument,
dismiss either of the two, or even persuade one to outweigh the other.
The matter standeth simply thus: she must have known my face, my
figure, my voice, for how could it be otherwise? yet she said she knew
me not, and that is proof perfect, for she cannot lie. But stop- I
think I begin to see. Peradventure he hath influenced her- commanded
her-compelled her to lie. That is the solution! The riddle is
unriddled. She seemed dead with fear- yes, she was under his
compulsion. I will seek her; I will find her; now that he is away, she
will speak her true mind. She will remember the old times when we were
little playfellows together, and this will soften her heart, and she
will no more betray me, but will confess me. There is no treacherous
blood in her- no, she was always honest and true. She has loved me
in those old days- this is my security; for whom one has loved, one
cannot betray.'
He stepped eagerly toward the door; at that moment it opened,
and the Lady Edith entered. She was very pale, but she walked with a
firm step, and her carriage was full of grace and gentle dignity.
Her face was as sad as before.
Miles sprang forward, with a happy confidence, to meet her, but
she checked him with a hardly perceptible gesture, and he stopped
where he was. She seated herself, and asked him to do likewise. Thus
simply did she take the sense of old-comradeship out of him, and
transform him into a stranger and a guest. The surprise of it, the
bewildering unexpectedness of it, made him begin to question, for a
moment, if he was the person he was pretending to be, after all. The
Lady Edith said:
'Sir, I have come to warn you. The mad cannot be persuaded out
of their delusions, perchance; but doubtless they may be persuaded
to avoid perils. I think this dream of yours hath the seeming of
honest truth to you, and therefore is not criminal- but do not tarry
here with it; for here it is dangerous.' She looked steadily into
Miles's face a moment, then added, impressively, 'It is the more
dangerous for that you are much like what our lost lad must have grown
to be, if he had lived.'
'Heavens, madam, but I am he!'
'I truly think you think it, sir. I question not your honesty in
that- I but warn you, that is all. My husband is master in this
region; his power hath hardly any limit; the people prosper or starve,
as he wills. If you resembled not the man whom you profess to be, my
husband might bid you pleasure yourself with your dream in peace;
but trust me, I know him well, I know what he will do; he will say
to all that you are but a mad impostor, and straightway all will
echo him.' She bent upon Miles that same steady look once more, and
added: 'If you were Miles Hendon, and he knew it and all the region
knew it- consider what I am saying, weigh it well- you would stand
in the same peril, your punishment would be no less sure; he would
deny you and denounce you, and none would be bold enough to give you
countenance.'
'Most truly I believe it,' said Miles, bitterly. 'The power that
can command one lifelong friend to betray and disown another, and be
obeyed, may well look to be obeyed in quarters where bread and life
are on the stake and no cobweb ties of loyalty and honor are
concerned.'
A faint tinge appeared for a moment in the lady's cheek, and she
dropped her eyes to the floor; but her voice betrayed no emotion
when she proceeded:
'I have warned you, I must still warn you, to go hence. This man
will destroy you else. He is a tyrant who knows no pity. I, who am his
fettered slave, know this. Poor Miles, and Arthur, and my dear
guardian, Sir Richard, are free of him, and at rest- better that you
were with them than that you bide here in the clutches of this
miscreant. Your pretensions are a menace to his title and possessions;
you have assaulted him in his own house- you are ruined if you stay.
Go- do not hesitate. If you lack money, take this purse, I beg of you,
and bribe the servants to let you pass. Oh, be warned, poor soul,
and escape while you may.'
Miles declined the purse with a gesture, and rose up and stood
before her.
'Grant me one thing,' he said. 'Let your eyes rest upon mine, so
that I may see if they be steady. There- now answer me. Am I Miles
Hendon?'
'No. I know you not.'
'Swear it!'
The answer was low, but distinct:
'I swear.'
'Oh, this passes belief!'
'Fly! Why will you waste the precious time? Fly and save
yourself.'
At that moment the officers burst into the room and a violent
struggle began; but Hendon was soon overpowered and dragged away.
The king was taken also, and both were bound and led to prison.
CHAPTER XXVII
In Prison
THE cells were all crowded; so the two friends were chained in a
large room where persons charged with trifling offenses were
commonly kept. They had company, for there were some twenty manacled
or fettered prisoners here, of both sexes and of varying ages- an
obscene and noisy gang. The king chafed bitterly over the stupendous
indignity thus put upon his royalty, but Hendon was moody and
taciturn. He was pretty thoroughly bewildered. He had come home, a
jubilant prodigal, expecting to find everybody wild with joy over
his return; and instead had got the cold shoulder and a jail. The
promise and the fulfilment differed so widely, that the effect was
stunning; he could not decide whether it was most tragic or most
grotesque. He felt much as a man might who had danced blithely out
to enjoy a rainbow, and got struck by lightning.
But gradually his confused and tormenting thoughts settled down
into some sort of order, and then his mind centered itself upon Edith.
He turned her conduct over, and examined it in all lights, but he
could not make anything satisfactory out of it. Did she know him?-
or didn't she know him? It was a perplexing puzzle, and occupied him a
long time; but he ended, finally, with the conviction that she did
know him, and had repudiated him for interested reasons. He wanted
to load her name with curses now; but this name had so long been
sacred to him that he found he could not bring his tongue to profane
it.
Wrapped in prison blankets of a soiled and tattered condition,
Hendon and the king passed a troubled night. For a bribe the jailer
had furnished liquor to some of the prisoners; singing of ribald
songs, fighting, shouting, and carousing, was the natural consequence.
At last, awhile after midnight, a man attacked a woman and nearly
killed her by beating her over the head with his manacles before the
jailer could come to the rescue. The jailer restored peace by giving
the man a sound clubbing about the head and shoulders- then the
carousing ceased; and after that, all had an opportunity to sleep
who did not mind the annoyance of the moanings and groanings of the
two wounded people.
During the ensuing week, the days and nights were of a
monotonous sameness, as to events; men whose faces Hendon remembered
more or less distinctly came, by day, to gaze at the 'impostor' and
repudiate and insult him; and by night the carousing and brawling went
on, with symmetrical regularity. However, there was a change of
incident at last. The jailer brought in an old man, and said to him:
'The villain is in this room- cast thy old eyes about and see if
thou canst say which is he.'
Hendon glanced up, and experienced a pleasant sensation for the
first time since he had been in the jail. He said to himself, 'This is
Blake Andrews, a servant all his life in my father's family- a good
honest soul, with a right heart in his breast. That is, formerly.
But none are true now; all are liars. This man will know me- and
will deny me, too, like the rest.'
The old man gazed around the room, glanced at each face in turn,
and finally said:
'I see none here but paltry knaves, scum o' the streets. Which
is he?'
The jailer laughed.
'Here,' he said; 'scan this big animal, and grant me an opinion.'
The old man approached, and looked Hendon over, long and
earnestly, then shook his head and said:
'Marry, this is no Hendon- nor ever was!'
'Right! Thy old eyes are sound yet. An I were Sir Hugh, I would
take the shabby carle and-'
The jailer finished by lifting himself a-tiptoe with an
imaginary halter, at the same time making a gurgling noise in his
throat suggestive of suffocation. The old man said, vindictively:
'Let him bless God an he fare no worse. An I had the handling o'
the villain, he should roast, or I am no true man!'
The jailer laughed a pleasant hyena laugh, and said:
'Give him a piece of thy mind, old man- they all do it. Thou'lt
find it good diversion.'
Then he sauntered toward his anteroom and disappeared. The old man
dropped upon his knees and whispered:
'God be thanked, thou'rt come again, my master! I believed thou
wert dead these seven years, and lo, here thou art alive! I knew
thee the moment I saw thee; and main hard work it was to keep a
stony countenance and seem to see none here but tuppenny knaves and
rubbish o' the streets. I am old and poor, Sir Miles; but say the word
and I will go forth and proclaim the truth though I be strangled for
it.'
'No,' said Hendon, 'thou shalt not. It would ruin thee, and yet
help but little in my cause. But I thank thee; for thou hast given
me back somewhat of my lost faith in my kind.'
The old servant became very valuable to Hendon and the king; for
he dropped in several times a day to 'abuse' the former, and always
smuggled in a few delicacies to help out the prison bill of fare; he
also furnished the current news. Hendon reserved the dainties for
the king; without them his majesty might not have survived, for he was
not able to eat the coarse and wretched food provided by the jailer.
Andrews was obliged to confine himself to brief visits, in order to
avoid suspicion; but he managed to impart a fair degree of information
each time- information delivered in a low voice, for Hendon's benefit,
and interlarded with insulting epithets delivered in a louder voice,
for the benefit of other hearers.
So, little by little, the story of the family came out. Arthur had
been dead six years. This loss, with the absence of news from
Hendon, impaired his father's health; he believed he was going to die,
and he wished to see Hugh and Edith settled in life before he passed
away; but Edith begged hard for delay, hoping for Miles's return; then
the letter came which brought the news of Miles's death; the shock
prostrated Sir Richard; he believed his end was very near, and he
and Hugh insisted upon the marriage; Edith begged for and obtained a
month's respite; then another, and finally a third; the marriage
then took place, by the death-bed of Sir Richard. It had not proved
a happy one. It was whispered about the country that shortly after the
nuptials the bride found among her husband's papers several rough
and incomplete drafts of the fatal letter, and had accused him of
precipitating the marriage- and Sir Richard's death, too- by a
wicked forgery. Tales of cruelty to the Lady Edith and the servants
were to be heard on all hands; and since the father's death Sir Hugh
had thrown off all soft disguises and become a pitiless master
toward all who in any way depended upon him and his domains for bread.
There was a bit of Andrews's gossip which the king listened to
with a lively interest:
'There is rumor that the king is mad. But in charity forbear to
say I mentioned it, for 'tis death to speak of it, they say.'
His majesty glared at the old man and said:
'The king is not mad, good man- and thou'lt find it to thy
advantage to busy thyself with matters that nearer concern thee than
this seditious prattle.'
'What doth the lad mean?' said Andrews, surprised at this brisk
assault from such an unexpected quarter. Hendon gave him a sign, and
he did not pursue his question, but went on with his budget:
'The late king is to be buried at Windsor in a day or two- the
sixteenth of the month- and the new king will be crowned at
Westminster the twentieth.'
'Methinks they must needs find him first,' muttered his majesty;
then added, confidently, 'but they will look to that- and so also
shall I.'
'In the name of-'
But the old man got no further- a warning sign from Hendon checked
his remark. He resumed the thread of his gossip.
'Sir Hugh goeth to the coronation- and with grand hopes. He
confidently looketh to come back a peer, for he is high in favor
with the Lord Protector.'
'What Lord Protector?' asked his majesty.
'His grace the Duke of Somerset.'
'What Duke of Somerset?'
'Marry, there is but one- Seymour, Earl of Hertford.'
The king asked sharply:
'Since when is he a duke, and Lord Protector?'
'Since the last day of January.'
'And, prithee, who made him so?'
'Himself and the Great Council- with the help of the king.'
His majesty started violently. 'The king!' he cried. 'What king,
good sir?'
'What king, indeed! (God-a-mercy, what aileth the boy?) Sith we
have but one, 'tis not difficult to answer- his most sacred majesty
King Edward the Sixth- whom God preserve! Yea, and a dear and gracious
little urchin is he, too; and whether he be mad or no- and they say he
mendeth daily- his praises are on all men's lips; and all bless him
likewise, and offer prayers that he may be spared to reign long in
England; for he began humanely, with saving the old Duke of
Norfolk's life, and now is he bent on destroying the cruelest of the
laws that harry and oppress the people.'
This news struck his majesty dumb with amazement, and plunged
him into so deep and dismal a reverie that he heard no more of the old
man's gossip. He wondered if the 'little urchin' was the beggar-boy
whom he left dressed in his own garments in the palace. It did not
seem possible that this could be, for surely his manners and speech
would betray him if he pretended to be the Prince of Wales- then he
would be driven out, and search made for the true prince. Could it
be that the court had set up some sprig of the nobility in his
place? No, for his uncle would not allow that- he was all-powerful and
could and would crush such a movement, of course. The boy's musings
profited him nothing; the more he tried to unriddle the mystery the
more perplexed he became, the more his head ached, and the worse he
slept. His impatience to get to London grew hourly, and his
captivity became almost unendurable.
Hendon's arts all failed with the king- he could not be comforted,
but a couple of women who were chained near him, succeeded better.
Under their gentle ministrations he found peace and learned a degree
of patience. He was very grateful, and came to love them dearly and to
delight in the sweet and soothing influence of their presence. He
asked them why they were in prison, and when they said they were
Baptists, he smiled, and inquired:
'Is that a crime to be shut up for in a prison? Now I grieve,
for I shall lose ye- they will not keep ye long for such a little
thing.'
They did not answer; and something in their faces made him uneasy.
He said, eagerly:
'You do not speak- be good to me, and tell me- there will be no
other punishment? Prithee, tell me there is no fear of that.'
They tried to change the topic, but his fears were aroused, and he
pursued it:
'Will they scourge thee? No, no, they would not be so cruel! Say
they would not. Come, they will not, will they?'
The women betrayed confusion and distress, but there was no
avoiding an answer, so one of them said, in a voice choked with
emotion:
'Oh, thou'lt break our hearts, thou gentle spirit! God will help
us to bear our-'
'It is a confession!' the king broke in. 'Then they will scourge
thee, the stony-hearted wretches! But oh, thou must not weep, I cannot
bear it. Keep up thy courage- I shall come to my own in time to save
thee from this bitter thing, and I will do it!'
When the king awoke in the morning, the women were gone.
'They are saved!' he said, joyfully; then added, despondently,
'but woe is me!- for they were my comforters.'
Each of them had left a shred of ribbon pinned to his clothing, in
token of remembrance. He said he would keep these things always; and
that soon he would seek out these dear good friends of his and take
them under his protection.
Just then the jailer came in with some subordinates and
commanded that the prisoners be conducted to the jail-yard. The king
was overjoyed- it would be a blessed thing to see the blue sky and
breathe the fresh air once more. He fretted and chafed at the slowness
of the officers, but his turn came at last and he was released from
his staple and ordered to follow the other prisoners, with Hendon.
The court, or quadrangle, was stone-paved, and open to the sky.
The prisoners entered it through a massive archway of masonry, and
were placed in file, standing, with their backs against the wall. A
rope was stretched in front of them, and they were also guarded by
their officers. It was a chill and lowering morning, and a light
snow which had fallen during the night whitened the great empty
space and added to the general dismalness of its aspect. Now and
then a wintry wind shivered through the place and sent the snow
eddying hither and thither.
In the center of the court stood two women, chained to posts. A
glance showed the king that these were his good friends. He shuddered,
and said to himself, 'Alack, they are not gone free, as I had thought.
To think that such as these should know the lash!- in England! Ay,
there's the shame of it- not in Heathenesse, but Christian England!
They will be scourged; and I, whom they have comforted and kindly
entreated, must look on and see the great wrong done; it is strange,
so strange! that I, the very source of power in this broad realm, am
helpless to protect them. But let these miscreants look well to
themselves, for there is a day coming when I will require of them a
heavy reckoning for this work. For every blow they strike now they
shall feel a hundred then.'
A great gate swung open and a crowd of citizens poured in. They
flocked around the two women, and hid them from the king's view. A
clergyman entered and passed through the crowd, and he also was
hidden. The king now heard talking, back and forth, as if questions
were being asked and answered, but he could not make out what was
said. Next there was a deal of bustle and preparation, and much
passing and repassing of officials through that part of the crowd that
stood on the further side of the women; and while this proceeded a
deep hush gradually fell upon the people.
Now, by command, the masses parted and fell aside, and the king
saw a spectacle that froze the marrow in his bones. Fagots had been
piled about the two women, and a kneeling man was lighting them!
The women bowed their heads, and covered their faces with their
hands; the yellow flames began to climb upward among the snapping
and crackling fagots, and wreaths of blue smoke to stream away on
the wind; the clergyman lifted his hands and began a prayer- just then
two young girls came flying through the great gate, uttering
piercing screams, and threw themselves upon the women at the stake.
Instantly they were torn away by the officers, and one of them was
kept in a tight grip, but the other broke loose, saying she would
die with her mother; and before she could be stopped she had flung her
arms about her mother's neck again. She was torn away once more, and
with her gown on fire.
Two or three men held her, and the burning portion of her gown was
snatched off and thrown flaming aside, she struggling all the while to
free herself, and saying she would be alone in the world now, and
begging to be allowed to die with her mother. Both the girls
screamed continually, and fought for freedom; but suddenly this tumult
was drowned under a volley of heart-piercing shrieks of mortal
agony. The king glanced from the frantic girls to the stake, then
turned away and leaned his ashen face against the wall, and looked
no more. He said, 'That which I have seen, in that one little
moment, will never go out from my memory, but will abide there; and
I shall see it all the days, and dream of it all the nights, till I
die. Would God I had been blind!'
Hendon was watching the king. He said to himself, with
satisfaction, 'His disorder mendeth; he hath changed, and groweth
gentler. If he had followed his wont, he would have stormed at these
varlets, and said he was king, and commanded that the women be
turned loose unscathed. Soon his delusion will pass away and be
forgotten, and his poor mind will be whole again. God speed the day!'
That same day several prisoners were brought in to remain
overnight, who were being conveyed, under guard, to various places
in the kingdom, to undergo punishment for crimes committed. The king
conversed with these- he had made it a point, from the beginning, to
instruct himself for the kingly office by questioning prisoners
whenever the opportunity offered- and the tale of their woes wrung his
heart. One of them was a poor half-witted woman who had stolen a
yard or two of cloth from a weaver- she was to be hanged for it.
Another was a man who had been accused of stealing a horse; he said
the proof had failed, and he had imagined that he was safe from the
halter; but no- he was hardly free before he was arraigned for killing
a deer in the king's park; this was proved against him, and now he was
on his way to the gallows. There was a tradesman's apprentice whose
case particularly distressed the king; this youth said he found a hawk
one evening that had escaped from its owner, and he took it home
with him, imagining himself entitled to it; but the court convicted
him of stealing it, and sentenced him to death.
The king was furious over these inhumanities, and wanted Hendon to
break jail and fly with him to Westminster, so that he could mount his
throne and hold out his scepter in mercy over these unfortunate people
and save their lives. 'Poor child,' sighed Hendon, 'these woeful tales
have brought his malady upon him again- alack, but for this evil
hap, he would have been well in a little time.'
Among these prisoners was an old lawyer- a man with a strong
face and a dauntless mien, Three years past, he had written a pamphlet
against the Lord Chancellor, accusing him of injustice, and had been
punished for it by the loss of his ears in the pillory and degradation
from the bar, and in addition had been fined L3,000 and sentenced to
imprisonment for life. Lately he had repeated his offense; and in
consequence was now under sentence to lose what remained of his
ears, pay a fine of L5,000, be branded on both cheeks, and remain in
prison for life.
'These be honorable scars,' he said, and turned back his gray hair
and showed the mutilated stubs of what had once been his ears.
The king's eye burned with passion. He said:
'None believe in me- neither wilt thou. But no matter- within
the compass of a month thou shalt be free; and more, the laws that
have dishonored thee, and shamed the English name, shall be swept from
the statute-books. The world is made wrong, kings should go to
school to their own laws at times, and so learn mercy.'(20)
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Sacrifice
MEANTIME Miles was growing sufficiently tired of confinment and
inaction. But now his trial came on, to his great gratification, and
he thought he could welcome any sentence provided a further
imprisonment should not be a part of it. But he was mistaken about
that. He was in a fine fury when he found himself described as a
'sturdy vagabond' and sentenced to sit two hours in the pillory for
bearing that character and for assaulting the master of Hendon Hall.
His pretensions as to brothership with his prosecutor, and rightful
heirship to the Hendon honors and estates, were left contemptuously
unnoticed, as being not even worth examination.
He raged and threatened on his way to punishment, but it did no
good; he was snatched roughly along by the officers, and got an
occasional cuff, besides, for his unreverent conduct.
The king could not pierce through the rabble that swarmed
behind; so he was obliged to follow in the rear, remote from his
good friend and servant. The king had been nearly condemned to the
stocks himself, for being in such bad company, but had been let off
with a lecture and a warning, in consideration of his youth. When
the crowd at last halted, he flitted feverishly from point to point
around its outer rim, hunting a place to get through; and at last,
after a deal of difficulty and delay, succeeded. There sat his poor
henchman in the degrading stocks, the sport and butt of a dirty mob-
he, the body servant of the king of England! Edward had heard the
sentence pronounced, but he had not realized the half that it meant.
His anger began to rise as the sense of this new indignity which had
been put upon him sank home; it jumped to summer heat the next moment,
when he saw an egg sail through the air and crush itself against
Hendon's cheek, and heard the crowd roar its enjoyment of the episode.
He sprang across the open circle and confronted the officer in charge,
crying:
'For shame! This is my servant- set him free! I am the-'
'Oh, peace!' exclaimed Hendon, in a panic, 'thou'lt destroy
thyself. Mind him not, officer, he is mad.'
'Give thyself no trouble as to the matter of minding him, good
man, I have small mind to mind him; but as to teaching him somewhat,
to that I am well inclined.' He turned to a subordinate and said,
'Give the little fool a taste or two of the lash, to mend his
manners.'
'Half a dozen will better serve his turn,' suggested Sir Hugh, who
had ridden up a moment before to take a passing glance at the
proceedings.
The king was seized. He did not even struggle, so paralyzed was he
with the mere thought of the monstrous outrage that was proposed to be
inflicted upon his sacred person. History was already defiled with the
record of the scourging of an English king with whips- it was an
intolerable reflection that he must furnish a duplicate of that
shameful page. He was in the toils, there was no help for him; he must
either take this punishment or beg for its remission. Hard conditions;
he would take the stripes- a king might do that, but a king could
not beg.
But meantime, Miles Hendon was resolving the difficulty. 'Let
the child go,' said he; 'ye heartless dogs, do ye not see how young
and frail he is? Let him go- I will take his lashes.'
'Marry, a good thought- and thanks for it,' said Sir Hugh, his
face lighting with a sardonic satisfaction. 'Let the little beggar go,
and give this fellow a dozen in his place- an honest dozen, well
laid on.' The king was in the act of entering a fierce protest, but
Sir Hugh silenced him with the potent remark, 'Yes, speak up, do,
and free thy mind- only, mark ye, that for each word you utter he
shall get six strokes the more.'
Hendon was removed from the stocks, and his back laid bare; and
while the lash was applied the poor little king turned away his face
and allowed unroyal tears to channel his cheeks unchecked. 'Ah,
brave good heart,' he said to himself, 'this loyal deed shall never
perish out of my memory. I will not forget it- and neither shall
they!' he added, with passion. While he mused, his appreciation of
Hendon's magnanimous conduct grew to greater and still greater
dimensions in his mind, and so also did his gratefulness for it.
Presently he said to himself, 'Who saves his prince from wounds and
possible death- and this he did for me- performs high service; but
it is little- it is nothing! -oh, less than nothing!- when 'tis
weighed against the act of him who saves his prince from SHAME!'
Hendon made no outcry under the scourge, but bore the heavy
blows with soldierly fortitude. This, together with his redeeming
the boy by taking his stripes for him, compelled the respect of even
that forlorn and degraded mob that was gathered there; and its gibes
and hootings died away, and no sound remained but the sound of the
falling blows. The stillness that pervaded the place when Hendon found
himself once more in the stocks, was in strong contrast with the
insulting clamour which had prevailed there so little a while before.
The king came softly to Hendon's side, and whispered in his ear:
'Kings cannot ennoble thee, thou good, great soul, for One who
is higher than kings hath done that for thee; but a king can confirm
thy nobility to men.' He picked up the scourge from the ground,
touched Hendon's bleeding shoulders lightly with it, and whispered,
'Edward of England dubs thee earl!'
Hendon was touched. The water welled to his eyes, yet at the
same time the grisly humor of the situation and circumstances so
undermined his gravity that it was all he could do to keep some sign
of his inward mirth from showing outside. To be suddenly hoisted,
naked and gory, from the common stocks to the Alpine altitude and
splendor of an earldom, seemed to him the last possibility in the line
of the grotesque. He said to himself, 'Now am I finely tinseled,
indeed! The specter-knight of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows is
become a specter-earl!- a dizzy flight for a callow wing! An this go
on, I shall presently be hung like a very May-pole with fantastic
gauds and make-believe honors. But I shall value them, all valueless
as they are, for the love that doth bestow them. Better these poor
mock dignities of mine, that come unasked from a clean hand and a
right spirit, than real ones bought by servility from grudging and
interested power.'
The dreaded Sir Hugh wheeled his horse about, and, as he spurred
away, the living wall divided silently to let him pass, and as
silently closed together again. And so remained; nobody went so far as
to venture a remark in favor of the prisoner, or in compliment to him;
but no matter, the absence of abuse was a sufficient homage in itself.
A late comer who was not posted as to the present circumstances, and
who delivered a sneer at the 'impostor' and was in the act of
following it with a dead cat, was promptly knocked down and kicked
out, without any words, and then the deep quiet resumed sway once
more.
CHAPTER XXIX
To London
WHEN Hendon's term of service in the stocks was finished, he was
released and ordered to quit the region and come back no more. His
sword was restored to him, and also his mule and his donkey. He
mounted and rode off, followed by the king, the crowd opening with
quiet respectfulness to let them pass, and then dispersing when they
were gone.
Hendon was soon absorbed in thought. There were questions of
high import to be answered. What should he do? Whither should he go?
Powerful help must be found somewhere, or he must relinquish his
inheritance and remain under the imputation of being an impostor
besides. Where could he hope to find this powerful help? Where,
indeed! It was a knotty question. By and by a thought occurred to
him which pointed to a possibility- the slenderest of slender
possibilities, certainly, but still worth considering, for lack of any
other that promised anything at all. He remembered what old Andrews
had said about the young king's goodness and his generous championship
of the wronged and unfortunate. Why not go and try to get speech of
him and beg for justice? Ah, yes, but could so fantastic a pauper
get admission to the august presence of a monarch? Never mind- let
that matter take care of itself; it was a bridge that would not need
to be crossed till he should come to it. He was an old campaigner, and
used to inventing shifts and expedients; no doubt he would be able
to find a way. Yes, he would strike for the capital. Maybe his
father's old friend, Sir Humphrey Marlow, would help him- 'good old
Sir Humphrey, Head Lieutenant of the late king's kitchen, or
stables, or something'- Miles could not remember just what or which.
Now that he had something to turn his energies to, a distinctly
defined object to accomplish, the fog of humiliation and depression
that had settled down upon his spirits lifted and blew away, and he
raised his head and looked about him. He was surprised to see how
far he had come; the village was away behind him. The king was jogging
along in his wake, with his head bowed; for he, too, was deep in plans
and thinkings. A sorrowful misgiving clouded Hendon's newborn
cheerfulness; would the boy be willing to go again to a city where,
during all his brief life, he had never known anything but ill usage
and pinching want? But the question must be asked; it could not be
avoided; so Hendon reined up, and called out:
'I had forgotten to inquire whither we are bound. Thy commands, my
liege?'
'To London!'
Hendon moved on again, mightily contented with the answer- but
astonished at it, too.
The whole journey was made without an adventure of importance.
But it ended with one. About ten o'clock on the night of the night
of the 19th of February, they stepped upon London Bridge, in the midst
of a writhing, struggling jam of howling and hurrahing people, whose
beer-jolly faces stood out strongly in the glare from manifold
torches- and at that instant the decaying head of some former duke
or other grandee tumbled down between them, striking Hendon on the
elbow and then bounding off among the hurrying confusion of feet. So
evanescent and unstable are men's works in this world!- the late
good king is but three weeks dead and three days in his grave, and
already the adornments which he took such pains to select from
prominent people for his noble bridge are falling. A citizen
stumbled over that head, and drove his own head into the back of
somebody in front of him, who turned and knocked down the first person
that came handy, and was promptly laid out himself by that person's
friend. It was the right ripe time for a free fight, for the
festivities of the morrow- Coronation Day- were already beginning;
everybody was full of strong drink and patriotism; within five minutes
the free fight was occupying a good deal of ground; within ten or
twelve it covered an acre or so, and was become a riot. By this time
Hendon and the king were hopelessly separated from each other and lost
in the rush and turmoil of the roaring masses of humanity. And so we
leave them.
CHAPTER XXX
Tom's Progress
WHILST the true king wandered about the land, poorly clad,
poorly fed, cuffed and derided by tramps one while, herding with
thieves and murderers in a jail another, and called idiot and impostor
by all impartially, the mock King Tom Canty enjoyed a quite
different experience.
When we saw him last, royalty was just beginning to have a
bright side for him. This bright side went on brightening more and
more every day; in a very little while it was become almost all
sunshine and delightfulness. He lost his fears; his misgivings faded
out and died; his embarrassments departed, and gave place to an easy
and confident bearing. He worked the whipping-boy mine to
ever-increasing profit.
He ordered my Lady Elizabeth and my Lady Jane Grey into his
presence when he wanted to play or talk, and dismissed them when he
was done with them, with the air of one familiarly accustomed to
such performances. It no longer confused him to have these lofty
personages kiss his hand at parting.
He came to enjoy being conducted to bed in state at night, and
dressed with intricate and solemn ceremony in the morning. It came
to be a proud pleasure to march to dinner attended by a glittering
procession of officers of state and gentlemen-at-arms; insomuch,
indeed, that he doubled his guard of gentlemen-at-arms, and made
them a hundred. He liked to hear the bugles sounding down the long
corridors, and the distant voices responding, 'Way for the King!'
He even learned to enjoy sitting in throned state in council,
and seeming to be something more than the Lord Protector's mouthpiece.
He liked to receive great ambassadors and their gorgeous trains, and
listen to the affectionate messages they brought from illustrious
monarchs who called him 'brother.' Oh, happy Tom Canty, late of
Offal Court!
He enjoyed his splendid clothes, and ordered more; he found his
four hundred servants too few for his proper grandeur, and trebled
them. The adulation of salaaming courtiers came to be sweet music to
his ears. He remained kind and gentle, and a sturdy and determined
champion of all that were oppressed, and he made tireless war upon
unjust laws; yet upon occasion, being offended, he could turn upon
an earl, or even a duke, and give him a look that would make him
tremble. Once, when his royal 'sister,' the grimly holy Lady Mary, set
herself to reason with him against the wisdom of his course in
pardoning so many people who would otherwise be jailed, or hanged,
or burned, and reminded him that their august late father's prisons
had sometimes contained as high as sixty thousand convicts at one
time, and that during his admirable reign he had delivered seventy-two
thousand thieves and robbers over to death by the executioner,(21)
the boy was filled with generous indignation, and commanded her to
go to her closet, and beseech God to take away the stone that was in
her breast, and give her a human heart.
Did Tom Canty never feel troubled about the poor little rightful
prince who had treated him so kindly, and flown out with such hot zeal
to avenge him upon the insolent sentinel at the palace gate? Yes;
his first royal days and nights were pretty well sprinkled with
painful thoughts about the lost prince, and with sincere longings
for his return and happy restoration to his native rights and
splendors. But as time wore on, and the prince did not come, Tom's
mind became more and more occupied with his new and enchanting
experiences, and by little and little the vanished monarch faded
almost out of his thoughts; and finally, when he did intrude upon them
at intervals, he was become an unwelcome specter, for he made Tom feel
guilty and ashamed.
Tom's poor mother and sisters traveled the same road out of his
mind. At first he pined for them, sorrowed for them, longed to see
them; but later, the thought of their coming some day in their rags
and dirt, and betraying him with their kisses, and pulling him down
from his lofty place and dragging him back to penury and degradation
and the slums, made him shudder. At last they ceased to trouble his
thoughts almost wholly. And he was content, even glad; for, whenever
their mournful and accusing faces did rise before him now, they made
him feel more despicable than the worms that crawl.
At midnight of the 19th of February, Tom Canty was sinking to
sleep in his rich bed in the palace, guarded by his loyal vassals, and
surrounded by the pomps of royalty, a happy boy; for to-morrow was the
day appointed for his solemn crowning as king of England. At that same
hour, Edward, the true king, hungry and thirsty, soiled and
draggled, worn with travel, and clothed in rags and shreds- his
share of the results of the riot- was wedged in among a crowd of
people who were watching with deep interest certain hurrying gangs
of workmen who streamed in and out of Westminster Abbey, busy as ants;
they were making the last preparation for the royal coronation.
CHAPTER XXXI
The Recognition Procession
WHEN Tom Canty awoke the next morning, the air was heavy with a
thunderous murmur; all the distances were charged with it. It was
music to him; for it meant that the English world was out in its
strength to give loyal welcome to the great day.
Presently Tom found himself once more the chief figure in a
wonderful floating pageant on the Thames; for by ancient custom the
'recognition procession' through London must start from the Tower, and
he was bound thither.
When he arrived there, the sides of the venerable fortress
seemed suddenly rent in a thousand places, and from every rent
leaped a red tongue of flame and a white gush of smoke; a deafening
explosion followed, which drowned the shoutings of the multitude,
and made the ground tremble; the flame-jets, the smoke, and the
explosions were repeated over and over again with marvelous
celerity, so that in a few moments the old Tower disappeared in the
vast fog of its own smoke, all but the very top of the tall pile
called the White Tower; this, with its banners, stood out above the
dense bank of vapor as a mountain peak projects above a cloud-rack.
Tom Canty, splendidly arrayed, mounted a prancing war-steed, whose
rich trappings almost reached to the ground; his 'uncle,' the Lord
Protector Somerset, similarly mounted, took place in his rear; the
King's Guard formed in single ranks on either side, clad in
burnished armor; after the Protector followed a seemingly interminable
procession of resplendent nobles attended by their vassals; after
these came the lord mayor and the aldermanic body, in crimson velvet
robes, and with their gold chains across their breasts; and after
these the officers and members of all the guilds of London, in rich
raiment, and bearing the showy banners of the several corporations.
Also in the procession, as a special guard of honor through the
city, was the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company- an organization
already three hundred years old at that time, and the only military
body in England possessing the privilege (which it still possesses
in our day) of holding itself independent of the commands of
Parliament. It was a brilliant spectacle, and was hailed with
acclamations all along the line, as it took its stately way through
the packed multitudes of citizens. The chronicler says, 'The king,
as he entered the city, was received by the people with prayers,
welcomings, cries, and tender words, and all signs which argue an
earnest love of subjects toward their sovereign; and the king, by
holding up his glad countenance to such as stood afar off, and most
tender language to those that stood nigh his Grace, showed himself
no less thankful to receive the people's good will than they to
offer it. To all that wished him well, he gave thanks. To such as bade
"God save his Grace," he said in return, "God save you all!" and added
that "he thanked them with all his heart." Wonderfully transported
were the people with the loving answers and gestures of their king.'
In Fenchurch Street a 'fair child, in costly apparel,' stood on
a stage to welcome his majesty to the city. The last verse of his
greeting was in these words:
Welcome, O King! as much as hearts can think;
Welcome again, as much as tongue can tell-
Welcome to joyous tongues, and hearts that will not shrink;
God thee preserve, we pray, and wish thee ever well.
The people burst forth in a glad shout, repeating with one voice
what the child had said. Tom Canty gazed abroad over the surging sea
of eager faces, and his heart swelled with exultation; and he felt
that the one thing worth living for in this world was to be a king,
and a nation's idol. Presently he caught sight, at a distance, of a
couple of his ragged Offal Court comrades- one of them the lord high
admiral in his late mimic court, the other the first lord of the
bedchamber in the same pretentious fiction; and his pride swelled
higher than ever. Oh, if they could only recognize him now! What
unspeakable glory it would be, if they could recognize him, and
realize that the derided mock king of the slums and back alleys was
become a real king, with illustrious dukes and princes for his
humble menials, and the English world at his feet! But he had to
deny himself, and choke down his desire, for such a recognition
might cost more than it would come to; so he turned away his head, and
left the two soiled lads to go on with their shoutings and glad
adulations, unsuspicious of whom it was they were lavishing them upon.
Every now and then rose the cry, 'A largess! a largess!' and Tom
responded by scattering a handful of bright new coins abroad for the
multitude to scramble for.
The chronicler says, 'At the upper end of Gracechurch Street,
before the sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch,
beneath which was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street
to the other. This was a historical pageant, representing the king's
immediate progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of
an immense white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows
around her; by her side was Henry VII, issuing out of a vast red rose,
disposed in the same manner; the hands of the royal pair were locked
together, and the wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. From the
red and white roses proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second
stage, occupied by Henry VIII, issuing from a red-and-white rose, with
the effigy of the new king's mother, Jane Seymour, represented by
his side. One branch sprang from this pair, which mounted to a third
stage, where sat the effigy of Edward VI himself, enthroned in royal
majesty; and the whole pageant was framed with wreaths of roses, red
and white.'
This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing
people, that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of
the child whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic
rhymes. But Tom Canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter
music to him than any poetry, no matter what its quality might be.
Whithersoever Tom turned his happy young face, the people recognized
the exactness of his effigy's likeness to himself, the flesh-and-blood
counterpart; and new whirlwinds of applause burst forth.
The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch
after another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and
symbolical tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue,
or talent, or merit, of the little king's. 'Throughout the whole of
Cheapside, from every penthouse and window, hung banners and
streamers; and the richest carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold
tapestried the streets- specimens of the great wealth of the stores
within; and the splendor of this thoroughfare was equaled in the other
streets, and in some even surpassed.'
'And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me- me!'
murmured Tom Canty.
The mock king's cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were
flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point,
just as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he
caught sight of a pale, astounded face which was strained forward
out of the second rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon
him, A sickening consternation struck through him; he recognized his
mother! and up flew his hand, palm outward, before his eyes- that
old involuntary gesture, born of a forgotten episode, and
perpetuated by habit. In an instant more she had torn her way out of
the press, and past the guards, and was at his side. She embraced
his leg, she covered it with kisses, she cried, 'O, my child, my
darling!' lifting toward him a face that was transfigured with joy and
love. The same instant an officer of the King's Guard snatched her
away with a curse, and sent her reeling back whence she came with a
vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words 'I do not know you,
woman!' were falling from Tom Canty's lips when this piteous thing
occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated so; and
as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was
swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so
broken-hearted, that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to
ashes, and withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken
valueless; they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.
The procession moved on, and still on, through ever-augmenting
splendors and ever-augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty
they were as if they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty
had lost its grace and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach.
Remorse was eating his heart out. He said, 'Would God I were free of
my captivity!'
He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the
first days of his compulsory greatness.
The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and
interminable serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city,
and through the huzzaing hosts; but still the king rode with bowed
head and vacant eyes, seeing only his mother's face and that wounded
look in it.
'Largess, largess!' The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.
'Long live Edward of England!' It seemed as if the earth shook
with the explosion; but there was no response from the king. He
heard it only as one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to
the ear out of a great distance, for it was smothered under another
sound which was still nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing
conscience- a voice which kept repeating those shameful words, 'I do
not know you, woman!'
The words smote upon the king's soul as the strokes of a funeral
bell smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of
secret treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone.
New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new
marvels, sprung into view; the pent clamors of waiting batteries
were released; new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting
multitudes; but the king gave no sign, and the accusing voice that
went moaning through his comfortless breast was all the sound he
heard.
By and by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a
little, and became touched with a something like solicitude or
anxiety; an abatement in the volume of applause was observable too.
The Lord Protector was quick to notice these things; he was as quick
to detect the cause. He spurred to the king's side, bent low in his
saddle, uncovered, and said:
'My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe
thy downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen.
Be advised; unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these
boding vapors, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile upon the
people.'
So saying, the duke scattered a handful of coins to right and
left, then retired to his place. The mock king did mechanically as
he had been bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were
near enough or sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of his plumed
head as he saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness;
the largess which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal; so
the people's anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth
again in as mighty a volume as before.
Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the
duke was obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered:
'O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humors; the eyes of
the world are upon thee.' Then he added with sharp annoyance,
'Perdition catch that crazy pauper! 'twas she that hath disturbed your
Highness.'
The gorgeous figure turned a lusterless eye upon the duke, and
said in a dead voice:
'She was my mother!'
'My God!' groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to
his post, 'the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad again!'
CHAPTER XXXII
Coronation Day
LET us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster
Abbey, at four o'clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation
Day. We are not without company; for although it is still night, we
find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people who
are well content to sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the
time shall come for them to see what they may not hope to see twice in
their lives- the coronation of a king. Yes, London and Westminster
have been astir ever since the warning guns boomed at three o'clock,
and already crowds of untitled rich folk who have bought the privilege
of trying to find sitting-room in the galleries are flocking in at the
entrances reserved for their sort.
The hours drag along, tediously enough. All stir has ceased for
some time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. We may sit now,
and look and think at our leisure. We have glimpses here and there and
yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many
galleries and balconies, wedged full with people, the other portions
of these galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by
intervening pillars and architectural projections. We have in view the
whole of the great north transept- empty, and waiting for England's
privileged ones. We see also the ample area or platform, carpeted with
rich stuffs, whereon the throne stands. The throne occupies the center
of the platform, and is raised above it upon an elevation of four
steps. Within the seat of the throne is inclosed a rough flat rock-
the Stone of Scone- which many generations of Scottish kings sat on to
be crowned, and so it in time became holy enough to answer a like
purpose for English monarchs. Both the throne and its footstool are
covered with cloth-of-gold.
Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily.
But at last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are
extinguished, and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces. All
features of the noble building are distinct now, but soft and
dreamy, for the sun is lightly veiled with clouds.
At seven o'clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs;
for on the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the
transept, clothed like Solomon for splendor, and is conducted to her
appointed place by an official clad in satins and velvets, whilst a
duplicate of him gathers up the lady's long train, follows after, and,
when the lady is seated, arranges the train across her lap for her. He
then places her footstool according to her desire, after which he puts
her coronet where it will be convenient to her hand when the time
for the simultaneous coroneting of the nobles shall arrive.
By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering
stream, and satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere,
seating them and making them comfortable. The scene is animated enough
now. There is stir and life, and shifting color everywhere. After a
time, quiet reigns again; for the peeresses are all come, and are
all in their places- a solid acre, or such a matter, of human flowers,
resplendent in variegated colors, and frosted like a Milky Way with
diamonds. There are all ages here: brown, wrinkled, white-haired
dowagers who are able to go back, and still back, down the stream of
time, and recall the crowning of Richard III and the troublous days of
that old forgotten age; and there are handsome middle-aged dames;
and lovely and gracious young matrons; and gentle and beautiful
young girls, with beaming eyes and fresh complexions, who may possibly
put on their jeweled coronets awkwardly when the great time comes; for
the matter will be new to them, and their excitement will be a sore
hindrance. Still, this may not happen, for the hair of all these
ladies has been arranged with a special view to the swift and
successful lodging of the crown in its place when the signal comes.
We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick
with diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvelous spectacle- but
now we are about to be astonished in earnest. About nine, the clouds
suddenly break away and a shaft of sunshine cleaves the mellow
atmosphere, and drifts slowly along the ranks of ladies; and every
rank it touches flames into a dazzling splendor of many-colored fires,
and we tingle to our finger-tips with the electric thrill that is shot
through us by the surprise and the beauty of the spectacle!
Presently a special envoy from some distant corner of the Orient,
marching with the general body of foreign ambassadors, crosses this
bar of sunshine, and we catch our breath, the glory that streams and
flashes and palpitates about him is so overpowering; for he is crusted
from head to heels with gems, and his slightest movement showers a
dancing radiance all around him.
Let us change the tense for convenience. The time drifted along-
one hour- two hours- two hours and a half; then the deep booming of
artillery told that the king and his grand procession had arrived at
last; so the waiting multitude rejoiced. All knew that a further delay
must follow, for the king must be prepared and robed for the solemn
ceremony; but this delay would be pleasantly occupied by the
assembling of the peers of the realm in their stately robes. These
were conducted ceremoniously to their seats, and their coronets placed
conveniently at hand; and meanwhile the multitude in the galleries
were alive with interest, for most of them were beholding for the
first time, dukes, earls, and barons, whose names had been
historical for five hundred years. When all were finally seated, the
spectacle from the galleries and all coigns of vantage was complete; a
gorgeous one to look upon and to remember.
Now the robed and mitered great heads of the church, and their
attendants, filed in upon the platform and took their appointed
places; these were followed by the Lord Protector and other great
officials, and these again by a steel-clad detachment of the Guard.
There was a waiting pause; then, at a signal, a triumphant peal of
music burst forth, and Tom Canty, dothed in a long robe of
cloth-of-gold, appeared at a door, and stepped upon the platform.
The entire multitude rose, and the ceremony of the Recognition ensued.
Then a noble anthem swept the Abbey with its rich waves of
sound; and thus heralded and welcomed, Tom Canty was conducted to
the throne. The ancient ceremonies went on with impressive
solemnity, whilst the audience gazed; and as they drew nearer and
nearer to completion, Tom Canty grew pale, and still paler, and a deep
and steadily deepening woe and despondency settled down upon his
spirits and upon his remorseful heart.
At last the final act was at hand. The Archbishop of Canterbury
lifted up the crown of England from its cushion and held it out over
the trembling mock king's head. In the same instant a rainbow radiance
flashed along the spacious transept; for with one impulse every
individual in the great concourse of nobles lifted a coronet and
poised it over his or her head- and paused in that attitude.
A deep hush pervaded the Abbey. At this impressive moment, a
startling apparition intruded upon the scene- an apparition observed
by none in the absorbed multitude, until it suddenly appeared,
moving up the great central aisle. It was a boy, bareheaded, ill shod,
and clothed in coarse plebeian garments that were falling to rags.
He raised his hand with a solemnity which ill comported with his
soiled and sorry aspect, and delivered this note of warning:
'I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited
head. I am the king!'
In an instant several indignant hands were laid upon the boy;
but in the same instant Tom Canty, in his regal vestments, made a
swift step forward and cried out in a ringing voice:
'Loose him and forbear! He is the king!'
A sort of panic of astonishment swept the assemblage, and they
partly rose in their places and stared in a bewildered way at one
another and at the chief figures in this scene, like persons who
wondered whether they were awake and in their senses, or asleep and
dreaming. The Lord Protector was as amazed as the rest, but quickly
recovered himself and exclaimed in a voice of authority:
'Mind not his Majesty, his malady is upon him again- seize the
vagabond!'
He would have been obeyed, but the mock king stamped his foot
and cried out:
'On your peril! Touch him not, he is the king!'
The hands were withheld; a paralysis fell upon the house, no one
moved, no one spoke; indeed, no one knew how to act or what to say, in
so strange and surprising an emergency. While all minds were
struggling to right themselves, the boy still moved steadily
forward, with high port and confident mien; he had never halted from
the beginning; and while the tangled minds still floundered
helplessly, he stepped upon the platform, and the mock king ran with a
glad face to meet him; and fell on his knees before him and said:
'Oh, my lord the king, let poor Tom Canty be first to swear fealty
to thee, and say " Put on thy crown and enter into thine own again!"'
The Lord Protector's eye fell sternly upon the new-comer's face;
but straightway the sternness vanished away, and gave place to an
expression of wondering surprise. This thing happened also to the
other great officers. They glanced at each other, and retreated a step
by a common and unconscious impulse. The thought in each mind was
the same: 'What a strange resemblance!'
The Lord Protector reflected a moment or two in perplexity, then
he said, with grave respectfulness:
'By your favor, sir, I desire to ask certain questions which-'
'I will answer them, my lord.'
The duke asked him many questions about the court, the late
king, the prince, the princesses. The boy answered them correctly
and without hesitating. He described the rooms of state in the palace,
the late king's apartments, and those of the Prince of Wales.
It was strange; it was wonderful; yes, it was unaccountable- so
all said that heard it. The tide was beginning to turn, and Tom
Canty's hopes to run high, when the Lord Protector shook his head
and said:
'It is true it is most wonderful- but it is no more than our
lord the king likewise can do.' This remark, and this reference to
himself, as still the king, saddened Tom Canty, and he felt his
hopes crumbling from under him.
'These are not proofs,' added the Protector.
The tide was turning very fast now, very fast, indeed- but in
the wrong direction; it was leaving poor Tom Canty stranded on the
throne, and sweeping the other out to sea. The Lord Protector communed
with himself- shook his head- the thought forced itself upon him,
'It is perilous to the state and to us all, to entertain so fateful
a riddle as this; it could divide the nation and undermine the
throne.' He turned and said,
'Sir Thomas, arrest this- No, hold!' His face lighted, and he
confronted the ragged candidate with this question:
'Where lieth the Great Seal? Answer me this truly, and the
riddle is unriddled; for only he that was Prince of Wales can so
answer! On so trivial a thing hang a throne and a dynasty!'
It was a lucky thought, a happy thought. That it was so considered
by the great officials was manifested by the silent applause that shot
from eye to eye around their circle in the form of bright approving
glances. Yes, none but the true prince could dissolve the stubborn
mystery of the vanished Great Seal- this forlorn little impostor had
been taught his lesson well, but here his teachings must fail, for his
teacher himself could not answer that question- ah, very good, very
good indeed; now we shall be rid of this troublesome and perilous
business in short order! And so they nodded invisibly and smiled
inwardly with satisfaction, and looked to see this foolish lad
stricken with a palsy of guilty confusion. How surprised they were,
then, to see nothing of the sort happen- how they marveled to hear him
answer up promptly, in a confident and untroubled voice, and say:
'There is naught in this riddle that is difficult.' Then,
without so much as a by-your-leave to anybody, he turned and gave this
command, with the easy manner of one accustomed to doing such
things: 'My Lord St. John, go you to my private cabinet in the palace-
for none knoweth the place better than you- and, close down to the
floor, in the left corner remotest from the door that opens from the
antechamber, you shall find in the wall a brazen nail-head; press upon
it and a little jewel closet will fly open which not even you do
know of- no, nor any soul else in all the world but me and the
trusty artisan that did contrive it for me. The first thing that
falleth under your eye will be the Great Seal- fetch it hither.'
All the company wondered at this speech, and wondered still more
to see the little mendicant pick out this peer without hesitancy or
apparent fear of mistake, and call him by name with such a placidly
convincing air of having known him all his life. The peer was almost
surprised into obeying. He even made a movement as if to go, but
quickly recovered his tranquil attitude and confessed his blunder with
a blush. Tom Canty turned upon him and said, sharply:
'Why dost thou hesitate? Hast not heard the king's command? Go!'
The Lord St. John made a deep obeisance- and it was observed
that it was a significantly cautious and non-committal one, it not
being delivered at either of the kings, but at the neutral ground
about half-way between the two- and took his leave.
Now began a movement of the gorgeous particles of that official
group which was slow, scarcely perceptible, and yet steady and
persistent- a movement such as is observed in a kaleidoscope that is
turned slowly, whereby the components of one splendid cluster fall
away and join themselves to another- a movement which, little by
little, in the present case, dissolved the glittering crowd that stood
about Tom Canty and clustered it together again in the neighborhood of
the new-comer. Tom Canty stood almost alone. Now ensued a brief season
of deep suspense and waiting- during which even the few faint-hearts
still remaining near Tom Canty gradually scraped together courage
enough to glide, one by one, over to the majority. So at last Tom
Canty, in his royal robes and jewels, stood wholly alone and
isolated from the world, a conspicuous figure, occupying an eloquent
vacancy.
Now the Lord St. John was seen returning. As he advanced up the
mid-aisle the interest was so intense that the low murmur of
conversation in the great assemblage died out and was succeeded by a
profound hush, a breathless stillness, through which his footfalls
pulsed with a dull and distant sound. Every eye was fastened upon
him as he moved along. He reached the platform, paused a moment,
then moved toward Tom Canty with a deep obeisance, and said:
'Sire, the Seal is not there!'
A mob does not melt away from the presence of a plague-patient
with more haste than the band of pallid and terrified courtiers melted
away from the presence of the shabby little claimant of the Crown.
In a moment he stood all alone, without a friend or supporter, a
target upon which was concentrated a bitter fire of scornful and angry
looks. The Lord Protector called out fiercely:
'Cast the beggar into the street, and scourge him through the
town- the paltry knave is worth no more consideration!'
Officers of the guard sprang forward to obey, but Tom Canty
waved them off and said:
'Back! Whoso touches him perils his life!'
The Lord Protector was perplexed in the last degree. He said to
the Lord St. John:
'Searched you well?- but it boots not to ask that. It doth seem
passing strange. Little things, trifles, slip out of one's ken, and
one does not think it matter for surprise; but how a so bulky thing as
the Seal of England can vanish away and no man be able to get track of
it again- a massy golden disk-'
Tom Canty, with beaming eyes, sprang forward and shouted:
'Hold, that is enough! Was it round?- and thick?- and had it
letters and devices graved upon it?- Yes? Oh, now I know what this
Great Seal is that there's been such worry and pother about! An ye had
described it to me, ye could have had it three weeks ago. Right well I
know where it lies; but it was not I that put it there- first.'
'Who, then, my liege?' asked the Lord Protector.
'He that stands there- the rightful king of England. And he
shall tell you himself where it lies- then you will believe he knew it
of his own knowledge. Bethink thee, my king- spur thy memory- it was
the last, the very last thing thou didst that day before thou didst
rush forth from the palace, clothed in my rags, to punish the
soldier that insulted me.'
A silence ensued, undisturbed by a movement or a whisper, and
all eyes were fixed upon the new-comer, who stood, with bent head
and corrugated brow, groping in his memory among a thronging multitude
of valueless recollections for one single little elusive fact, which
found, would seat him upon a throne- unfound, would leave him as he
was, for good and all- a pauper and an outcast. Moment after moment
passed- the moments built themselves into minutes- still the boy
struggled silently on, and gave no sign. But at last he heaved a sigh,
shook his head slowly, and said, with a trembling lip and in a
despondent voice:
'I call the scene back- all of it- but the Seal hath no place in
it.' He paused, then looked up, and said with gentle dignity, 'My
lords and gentlemen, if ye will rob your rightful sovereign of his own
for lack of this evidence which he is not able to furnish, I may not
stay ye, being powerless. But-'
'O folly, O madness, my king!' cried Tom Canty, in a panic,
'wait!- think! Do not give up!- the cause is not lost! Nor shall be,
neither! List to what I say- follow every word- I am going to bring
that morning back again, every hap just as it happened. We talked- I
told you of my sisters, Nan and Bet- ah, yes, you remember that; and
about mine old grandam- and the rough games of the lads of Offal
Court- yes, you remember these things also; very well, follow me
still, you shall recall everything. You gave me food and drink, and
did with princely courtesy send away the servants, so that my low
breeding might not shame me before them- ah, yes, this also you
remember.'
As Tom checked off his details, and the other boy nodded his
head in recognition of them, the great audience and the officials
stared in puzzled wonderment; the tale sounded like true history,
yet how could this impossible conjunction between a prince and a
beggar boy have come about? Never was a company of people so
perplexed, so interested, and so stupefied, before.
'For a jest, my prince, we did exchange garments. Then we stood
before a mirror; and so alike were we that both said it seemed as if
there had been no change made- yes, you remember that. Then you
noticed that the soldier had hurt my hand- look! here it is, I
cannot yet even write with it, the fingers are so stiff. At this
your Highness sprang up, vowing vengeance upon that soldier, and ran
toward the door- you passed a table- that thing you call the Seal
lay on that table- you snatched it up and looked eagerly about, as
if for a place to hide it- your eye caught sight of-'
'There, 'tis sufficient!- and the dear God be thanked!'
exclaimed the ragged claimant, in a mighty excitement. 'Go, my good
St. John- in an arm-piece of the Milanese armor that hangs on the
wall, thou'lt find the Seal!'
'Right, my king! right!' cried Tom Canty; 'now the scepter of
England is thine own; and it were better for him that would dispute it
that he had been born dumb! Go, my Lord St. John, give thy feet
wings!'
The whole assemblage was on its feet now, and well-nigh out of its
mind with uneasiness, apprehension, and consuming excitement. On the
floor and on the platform a deafening buzz of frantic conversation
burst forth, and for some time nobody knew anything or heard
anything or was interested in anything but what his neighbor was
shouting into his ear, or he was shouting into his neighbor's ear.
Time- nobody knew how much of it- swept by unheeded and unnoted. At
last a sudden hush fell upon the house, and in the same moment St.
John appeared upon the platform and held the Great Seal aloft in his
hand. Then such a shout went up!
'Long live the true king!'
For five minutes the air quaked with shouts and the crash of
musical instruments, and was white with a storm of waving
handkerchiefs; and through it all a ragged lad, the most conspicuous
figure in England, stood, flushed and happy and proud, in the center
of the spacious platform, with the great vassals of the kingdom
kneeling around him.
Then all rose, and Tom Canty cried out:
'Now, O my king, take these regal garments back, and give poor
Tom, thy servant, his shreds and remnants again.'
The Lord Protector spoke up:
'Let the small varlet be stripped and flung into the Tower.'
But the new king, the true king, said:
'I will not have it so. But for him I had not got my crown
again- none shall lay a hand upon him to harm him. And as for thee, my
good uncle, my Lord Protector, this conduct of thine is not grateful
toward this poor lad, for I hear he hath made thee a duke'- the
Protector blushed-' yet he was not a king; wherefore, what is thy fine
title worth now? To-morrow you shall sue to me, through him, for its
confirmation, else no duke, but a simple earl, shalt thou remain.'
Under this rebuke, his grace the Duke of Somerset retired a
little from the front for the moment. The king turned to Tom, and
said, kindly:
'My poor boy, how was it that you could remember where I hid the
Seal when I could not remember it myself?'
'Ah, my king, that was easy, since I used it divers days.'
'Used it- yet could not explain where it was?'
'I did not know it was that they wanted. They did not describe it,
your majesty.'
'Then how used you it?'
The red blood began to steal up into Tom's cheeks, and he
dropped his eyes and was silent.
'Speak up, good lad, and fear nothing,' said the king. 'How used
you the Great Seal of England?'
Tom stammered a moment, in a pathetic confusion, then got it out:
'To crack nuts with!'
Poor child, the avalanche of laughter that greeted this, nearly
swept him off his feet. But if a doubt remained in any mind that Tom
Canty was not the king of England and familiar with the august
appurtenances of royalty, this reply disposed of it utterly.
Meantime the sumptuous robe of state had been removed from Tom's
shoulders to the king's, whose rags were effectively hidden from sight
under it. Then the coronation ceremonies were resumed; the true king
was anointed and the crown set upon his head, whilst cannon
thundered the news to the city, and all London seemed to rock with
applause.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Edward as King
MILES HENDON was picturesque enough before he got into the riot on
London Bridge- he was more so when he got out of it. He had but little
money when he got in, none at all when he got out. The pickpockets had
stripped him of his last farthing.
But no matter, so he found his boy. Being a soldier, he did not go
at his task in a random way, but set to work, first of all, to arrange
his campaign.
What would the boy naturally do? Where would he naturally go?
Well- argued Miles- he would naturally go to his former haunts, for
that is the instinct of unsound minds, when homeless and forsaken,
as well as of sound ones. Whereabouts were his former haunts? His
rags, taken together with the low villain who seemed to know him and
who even claimed to be his father, indicated that his home was in
one or other of the poorest and meanest districts of London. Would the
search for him be difficult, or long? No, it was likely to be easy and
brief. He would not hunt for the boy, he would hunt for a crowd; in
the center of a big crowd or a little one, sooner or later he should
find his poor little friend, sure; and the mangy mob would be
entertaining itself with pestering and aggravating the boy, who
would be proclaiming himself king, as usual. Then Miles Hendon would
cripple some of those people, and carry off his little ward, and
comfort and cheer him with loving words, and the two would never be
separated any more.
So Miles started on his quest. Hour after hour he tramped
through back alleys and squalid streets, seeking groups and crowds,
and finding no end of them, but never any sign of the boy. This
greatly surprised him, but did not discourage him. To his notion,
there was nothing the matter with his plan of campaign; the only
miscalculation about it was that the campaign was becoming a lengthy
one, whereas he had expected it to be short.
When daylight arrived at last, he had made many a mile, and
canvassed many a crowd, but the only result was that he was
tolerably tired, rather hungry, and very sleepy. He wanted some
breakfast, but there was no way to get it. To beg for it did not occur
to him; as to pawning his sword, he would as soon have thought of
parting with his honor; he could spare some of his clothes- yes, but
one could as easily find a customer for a disease as for such clothes.
At noon he was still tramping- among the rabble which followed
after the royal procession now; for he argued that this regal
display would attract his little lunatic powerfully. He followed the
pageant through all its devious windings about London, and all the way
to Westminster and the Abbey. He drifted here and there among the
multitudes that were massed in the vicinity for a weary long time,
baffled and perplexed, and finally wandered off thinking, and trying
to contrive some way to better his plan of campaign. By and by, when
he came to himself out of his musings, he discovered that the town was
far behind him and that the day was growing old. He was near the
river, and in the country; it was a region of fine rural seats- not
the sort of district to welcome clothes like his.
It was not at all cold; so he stretched himself on the ground in
the lee of a hedge to rest and think. Drowsiness presently began to
settle upon his senses; the faint and far-off boom of cannon was
wafted to his ear, and he said to himself, 'The new king is
crowned,' and straightway fell asleep. He had not slept or rested,
before, for more than thirty hours. He did not wake again until near
the middle of the next morning.
He got up, lame, stiff, and half famished, washed himself in the
river, stayed his stomach with a pint or two of water, and trudged off
toward Westminster grumbling at himself for having wasted so much
time. Hunger helped him to a new plan now; he would try to get
speech with old Sir Humphrey Marlow and borrow a few marks, and- but
that was enough of a plan for the present; it would be time enough
to enlarge it when this first stage should be accomplished.
Toward eleven o'clock he approached the palace; and although a
host of showy people were about him, moving in the same direction,
he was not inconspicuous- his costume took care of that. He watched
these people's faces narrowly, hoping to find a charitable one whose
possessor might be willing to carry his name to the old lieutenant- as
to trying to get into the palace himself, that was simply out of the
question.
Presently our whipping-boy passed him, then wheeled about and
scanned his figure well, saying to himself, 'An that is not the very
vagabond his majesty is in such a worry about, then am I an ass-
though belike I was that before. He answereth the description to a
rag- that God should make two such, would be to cheapen miracles, by
wasteful repetition. I would I could contrive an excuse to speak
with him.'
Miles Hendon saved him the trouble; for he turned about, then,
as a man generally will when somebody mesmerizes him by gazing hard at
him from behind; and observing a strong interest in the boy's eyes, he
stepped toward him and said:
'You have just come out from the palace; do you belong there?'
'Yes, your worship.'
'Know you Sir Humphrey Marlow?'
The boy started, and said to himself, 'Lord! mine old departed
father!' Then he answered, aloud, 'Right well, your worship.'
'Good- is he within?'
'Yes,' said the boy; and added, to himself, 'within his grave.'
Might I crave your favor to carry my name to him, and say I beg to
say a word in his ear?'
'I will despatch the business right willingly, fair sir.'
'Then say Miles Hendon, son of Sir Richard, is here without- I
shall be greatly bounden to you, my good lad.'
The boy looked disappointed- 'the king did not name him so,' he
said to himself- 'but it mattereth not, this is his twin brother,
and can give his majesty news of t'other Sir-Odds-and-Ends, I
warrant.' So he said to Miles, 'Step in there a moment, good sir,
and wait till I bring you word.'
Hendon retired to the place indicated- it was a recess sunk in the
palace wall, with a stone bench in it- a shelter for sentinels in
bad weather. He had hardly seated himself when some halberdiers, in
charge of an officer, passed by. The officer saw him, halted his
men, and commanded Hendon to come forth. He obeyed, and was promptly
arrested as a suspicious character prowling within the precincts of
the palace. Things began to look ugly. Poor Miles was going to
explain, but the officer roughly silenced him, and ordered his men
to disarm him and search him.
'God of his mercy grant that they find somewhat,' said poor Miles;
'I have searched enow, and failed, yet is my need greater than
theirs.'
Nothing was found but a document. The officer tore it open, and
Hendon smiled when he recognized the 'pot-hooks' made by his lost
little friend that black day at Hendon Hall. The officer's face grew
dark as he read the English paragraph, and Miles blenched to the
opposite color as he listened.
'Another new claimant of the crown!' cried the officer. 'Verily
they breed like rabbits to-day. Seize the rascal, men, and see ye keep
him fast while I convey this precious paper within and send it to
the king.
He hurried away, leaving the prisoner in the grip of the
halberdiers.
'Now is my evil luck ended at last,' muttered Hendon, 'for I shall
dangle at a rope's end for a certainty, by reason of that bit of
writing. And what will become of my poor lad!- ah, only the good God
knoweth.'
By and by he saw the officer coming again, in a great hurry; so he
plucked his courage together, purposing to meet his trouble as
became a man. The officer ordered the men to loose the prisoner and
return his sword to him; then bowed respectfully, and said:
'Please you, sir, to follow me.'
Hendon followed, saying to himself, 'An I were not travelling to
death and judgment, and so must needs economize in sin, I would
throttle this knave for his mock courtesy.'
The two traversed a populous court, and arrived at the grand
entrance of the palace, where the officer, with another bow, delivered
Hendon into the hands of a gorgeous official, who received him with
profound respect and led him forward through a great hall, lined on
both sides with rows of splendid flunkies (who made reverential
obeisance as the two passed along, but fell into death-throes of
silent laughter at our stately scarecrow the moment his back was
turned), and up a broad staircase, among flocks of fine folk, and
finally conducted him to a vast room, clove a passage for him
through the assembled nobility of England, then made a bow, reminded
him to take his hat off, and left him standing in the middle of the
room, a mark for all eyes, for plenty of indignant frowns, and for a
sufficiency of amused and derisive smiles.
Miles Hendon was entirely bewildered. There sat the young king,
under a canopy of state, five steps away, with his head bent down
and aside, speaking with a sort of human bird of paradise- a duke,
maybe; Hendon observed to himself that it was hard enough to be
sentenced to death in the full vigor of life, without having this
peculiarly public humiliation added. He wished the king would hurry
about it- some of the gaudy people near by were becoming pretty
offensive. At this moment the king raised his head slightly and Hendon
caught a good view of his face. The sight nearly took his breath away!
He stood gazing at the fair young face like one transfixed; then
presently ejaculated:
'Lo, the lord of the Kingdom of Dreams and Shadows on his throne!'
He muttered some broken sentences, still gazing and marveling;
then turned his eyes around and about, scanning the gorgeous throng
and the splendid saloon, murmuring, 'But these are real- verily
these are real- surely it is not a dream.'
He stared at the king again- and thought, 'Is it a dream?... or is
he the veritable sovereign of England, and not the friendless poor Tom
o' Bedlam I took him for- who shall solve me this riddle?'
A sudden idea flashed in his eye, and he strode to the wall,
gathered up a chair, brought it back, planted it on the floor, and sat
down in it!
A buzz of indignation broke out, a rough hand was laid upon him,
and a voice exclaimed:
'Up, thou mannerless clown!- wouldst sit in the presence of the
king?'
The disturbance attracted his majesty's attention, who stretched
forth his hand and cried out:
'Touch him not, it is his right!'
The throng fell back, stupefied. The king went on:
'Learn ye all, ladies, lords and gentlemen, that this is my trusty
and well-beloved servant, Miles Hendon, who interposed his good
sword and saved his prince from bodily harm and possible death- and
for this he is a knight, by the king's voice. Also learn, that for a
higher service, in that he saved his sovereign stripes and shame,
taking these upon himself, he is a peer of England, Earl of Kent,
and shall have gold and lands meet for the dignity. More- the
privilege which he hath just exercised is his by royal grant; for we
have ordained that the chiefs of his line shall have and hold the
right to sit in the presence of the majesty of England henceforth, age
after age, so long as the crown shall endure. Molest him not.'
Two persons, who, through delay, had only arrived from the country
during this morning, and had now been in this room only five
minutes, stood listening to these words and looking at the king,
then at the scarecrow, then at the king again, in a sort of torpid
bewilderment. These were Sir Hugh and the Lady Edith. But the new earl
did not see them. He was still staring at the monarch, in a dazed way,
and muttering:
'Oh, body o' me! This my pauper! This my lunatic! This is he
whom I would show what grandeur was, in my house of seventy rooms
and seven and twenty servants! This is he who had never known aught
but rags for raiment, kicks for comfort, and offal for diet! This is
he whom I adopted and would make respectable! Would God I had a bag to
hide my head in!'
Then his manners suddenly came back to him, and he dropped upon
his knees, with his hands between the king's, and swore allegiance and
did homage for his lands and titles. Then he rose and stood
respectfully aside, a mark still for all eyes- and much envy, too.
Now the king discovered Sir Hugh, and spoke out, with wrathful
voice and kindling eye:
'Strip this robber of his false show and stolen estates, and put
him under lock and key till I have need of him.'
The late Sir Hugh was led away.
There was a stir at the other end of the room now; the
assemblage fell apart, and Tom Canty, quaintly but richly clothed,
marched down, between these living walls, preceded by an usher. He
knelt before the king, who said:
'I have learned the story of these past few weeks, and am well
pleased with thee. Thou hast governed the realm with right royal
gentleness and mercy. Thou hast found thy mother and thy sisters
again? Good; they shall be cared for- and thy father shall hang, if
thou desire it and the law consent. Know, all ye that hear my voice,
that from this day, they that abide in the shelter of Christ's
Hospital and share the king's bounty, shall have their minds and
hearts fed, as well as their baser parts; and this boy shall dwell
there, and hold the chief place in its honorable body of governors,
during life. And for that he hath been a king, it is meet that other
than common observance shall be his due; wherefore, note this his
dress of state, for by it he shall be known, and none shall copy it;
and wheresoever he shall come, it shall remind the people that he hath
been royal, in his time, and none shall deny him his due of
reverence or fail to give him salutation. He hath the throne's
protection, he hath the crown's support, he shall be known and
called by the honorable title of the King's Ward.'
The proud and happy Tom Canty rose and kissed the king's hand, and
was conducted from the presence. He did not waste any time, but flew
to his mother, to tell her and Nan and Bet all about it and get them
to help him enjoy the great news.(22)
CONCLUSION
CONCLUSION
Justice and Retribution
WHEN the mysteries were all cleared up, it came out, by confession
of Hugh Hendon, that his wife had repudiated Miles by his command that
day at Hendon Hall- a command assisted and supported by the
perfectly trustworthy promise that if she did not deny that he was
Miles Hendon, and stand firmly to it, he would have her life;
whereupon she said take it, she did not value it- and she would not
repudiate Miles; then her husband said he would spare her life, but
have Miles assassinated! This was a different matter; so she gave
her word and kept it.
Hugh was not prosecuted for his threats or for stealing his
brother's estates and title, because the wife and brother would not
testify against him- and the former would not have been allowed to
do it, even if she had wanted to. Hugh deserted his wife and went over
to the continent, where he presently died; and by and by the Earl of
Kent married his relict. There were grand times and rejoicings at
Hendon village when the couple paid their first visit to the Hall.
Tom Canty's father was never heard of again.
The king sought out the farmer who had been branded and sold as
a slave, and reclaimed him from his evil life with the Ruffler's gang,
and put him in the way of a comfortable livelihood.
He also took that old lawyer out of prison and remitted his
fine. He provided good homes for the daughters of the two Baptist
women whom he saw burned at the stake, and roundly punished the
official who laid the undeserved stripes upon Miles Hendon's back.
He saved from the gallows the boy who had captured the stray
falcon, and also the woman who had stolen the remnant of cloth from
a weaver; but he was too late to save the man who had been convicted
of killing a deer in the royal forest.
He showed favor to the justice who had pitied him when he was
supposed to have stolen a pig, and he had the gratification of
seeing him grow in the public esteem and become a great and honored
man.
As long as the king lived he was fond of telling the story of
his adventures, all through, from the hour that the sentinel cuffed
him away from the palace gate till the final midnight when he deftly
mixed himself into a gang of hurrying workmen and so slipped into
the Abbey and climbed up and hid himself in the Confessor's tomb,
and then slept so long, next day, that he came within one of missing
the Coronation altogether. He said that the frequent rehearsing of the
precious lesson kept him strong in his purpose to make its teachings
yield benefits to his people; and so, while his life was spared he
should continue to tell the story, and thus keep its sorrowful
spectacles fresh in his memory and the springs of pity replenished
in his heart.
Miles Hendon and Tom Canty were favorites of the king, all through
his brief reign, and his sincere mourners when he died. The good
Earl of Kent had too much good sense to abuse his peculiar
privilege; but he exercised it twice after the instance we have seen
of it before he was called from the world; once at the accession of
Queen Mary, and once at the accession of Queen Elizabeth. A descendant
of his exercised it at the accession of James I. Before this one's son
chose to use the privilege, near a quarter of a century had elapsed,
and the 'privilege of the Kents' had faded out of most people's
memories; so, when the Kent of that day appeared before Charles I
and his court and sat down in the sovereign's presence to assert and
perpetuate the right of his house, there was a fine stir, indeed!
But the matter was soon explained and the right confirmed. The last
earl of the line fell in the wars of the Commonwealth fighting for the
king, and the odd privilege ended with him.
Tom Canty lived to be a very old man, a handsome, white-haired old
fellow, of grave and benignant aspect. As long as he lasted he was
honored; and he was also reverenced, for his striking and peculiar
costume kept the people reminded that 'in his time he had been royal';
so, wherever he appeared the crowd fell apart, making way for him, and
whispering, one to another, 'Doff thy hat, it is the King's Ward!'-
and so they saluted, and got his kindly smile in return- and they
valued it, too, for his was an honorable history.
Yes, King Edward VI lived only a few years, poor boy, but he lived
them worthily. More than once, when some great dignitary, some
gilded vassal of the crown, made argument against his leniency, and
urged that some law which he was bent upon amending was gentle
enough for its purpose, and wrought no suffering or oppression which
any one need mightily mind, the young king turned the mournful
eloquence of his great compassionate eyes upon him and answered:
'What dost thou know of suffering and oppression! I and my
people know, but not thou.'
The reign of Edward VI was a singularly merciful one for those
harsh times. Now that we are taking leave of him let us try to keep
this in our minds, to his credit.
NOTES
NOTES
Christ's Hospital Costume. It is most reasonable to regard the
dress as copied from the costume of the citizens of London of that
period, when long blue coats were the common habit of apprentices
and serving-men, and yellow stockings were generally worn; the coat
fits closely to the body, but has loose sleeves, and beneath is worn a
sleeveless yellow undercoat; around the waist is a red leathern
girdle; a clerical band around the neck, and a small flat black cap,
about the size of a saucer, completes the costume.- Timbs's
'Curiosities of London.'
(2) It appears that Christ's Hospital was not originally
founded as a school; its object was to rescue children from the
streets, to shelter, feed, clothe them, etc.- Timb's 'Curiosities of
London.'
(3) The Duke of Norfolk's Condemnation Commanded. The King was
now approaching fast toward his end; and fearing lest Norfolk should
escape him, he sent a message to the Commons, by which he desired them
to hasten the bill, on pretense that Norfolk enjoyed the dignity of
earl marshal, and it was necessary to appoint another, who might
officiate at the ensuing ceremony of installing his son Prince of
Wales.- Hume, vol. iii, p. 307
(4) It was not till the end of this reign (Henry VIII) that any
salads, carrots, turnips, or other edible roots were produced in
England. The little of these vegetables that was used was formerly
imported from Holland and Flanders. Queen Catherine, when she wanted a
salad, was obliged to despatch a messenger thither on purpose.- Hume's
History of England, vol. iii, p. 314.
(5) Attainder of Norfolk. The house of peers, without examining
the prisoner, without trial or evidence, passed a bill of attainder
against him and sent it down to the commons.... The obsequious commons
obeyed his (the King's) directions; and the King, having affixed the
royal assent to the bill by commissioners, issued orders for the
execution of Norfolk on the morning of the twenty-ninth of January
(the next day).- Hume's England, vol. iii, p. 306.
(6) The Loving-Cup. The loving-cup, and the peculiar ceremonies
observed in drinking from it, are older than English history. It is
thought that both are Danish importations. As far back as knowledge
goes, the loving-cup has always been drunk at English banquets.
Tradition explains the ceremonies in this way: in the rude ancient
times it was deemed a wise precaution to have both hands of both
drinkers employed, lest while the pledger pledged his love and
fidelity to the pledgee the pledgee take that opportunity to slip a
dirk into him!
(7) The Duke of Norfolks Narrow Escape. Had Henry VIII survived a
few hours longer, his order for the duke's execution would have been
carried into effect. 'But news being carried to the Tower that the
King himself had expired that night, the lieutenant deferred obeying
the warrant; and it was not thought advisable by the council to
begin a new reign by the death of the greatest nobleman in the
Kingdom, who had been condemned by a sentence so unjust and
tyrannical.'- Hume's England, vol. iii, p 307.
(8) He refers to the order of baronets, or baronettes- the
barones minor, as distinct from the parliamentary barons;- not, it
need hardly be said, the baronets of later creation.
(9) The lords of Kingsale, descendants of De Courcy, still
enjoy this curious privilege.
(10) Hume.
(11) Hume.
(12) The Whipping-Boy. James I and Charles II had whipping-boys
when they were little fellows, to take their punishment for them
when they fell short in their lessons; so I have ventured to furnish
my small prince with one, for my own purposes.
(13) Character of Hertford. The young king discovered an
extreme attachment to his uncle, who was, in the main, a man of
moderation and probity.- Hume's England, vol. iii, p. 324.
But if he (the Protector) gave offense by assuming too much state,
he deserves great praise on account of the laws passed this session,
by which the rigor of former statutes was much mitigated, and some
security given to the freedom of the constitution. All laws were
repealed which extended the crime of treason beyond the statute of the
twenty-fifth of Edward III; all laws enacted during the late reign
extending the crime of felony; all the former laws against Lollardy or
heresy, together with the statute of the Six Articles. None were to be
accused for words, but within a month after they were spoken. By these
repeals several of the most rigorous laws that ever had passed in
England were annulled; and some dawn, both of civil and religious
liberty, began to appear to the people. A repeal also passed of that
law, the destruction of all laws, by which the king's proclamation was
made of equal force with a statute.- Ibid., vol. iii, p. 339.
Boiling to Death. In the reign of Henry VIII, poisoners were, by
act of parliament condemned to be boiled to death. This act was
repealed in the following reign.
In Germany, even in the 17th century, this horrible punishment was
inflicted on coiners and counterfeiters. Taylor, the Water Poet,
describes an execution he witnessed in Hamburg, in 1616. The judgement
pronounced against a coiner of false money was that he should 'be
boiled to death in oil: not thrown into the vessel at once, but with a
pulley or rope to be hanged under the armpits, and then let down
into the oil by degrees; first the feet, and next the legs, and so
to boil his flesh from his bones alive.'- Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's
'Blue Laws, True and False,' p. 13.
The Famous Stocking Case. A woman and her daughter, nine years
old, were hanged in Huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil,
and raising a storm by pulling off their stockings!- Ibid., p. 20.
(14) Leigh Hunt's The Town, p. 408, quotation from an early
tourist.
(15) From 'The English Rogue': London, 1665.
(16) Canting terms for various kinds of thieves, beggars and
vagabonds, and their female companions.
(17) Enslaving. So young a king, and so ignorant a peasant were
likely to make mistakes- and this is an instance in point. This
peasant was suffering from this law by anticipation; the king was
venting his indignation against a law which was not yet in
existence: for this hideous statute was to have birth in this little
king's own reign. However, we know, from the humanity of his
character, that it could never have been suggested by him.
(18) From 'The English Rogue': London, 1665.
(19) Death for Trifling Larcenies. When Connecticut and New Haven
were framing their first codes, larceny above the value of twelve
pence was a capital crime in England, as it had been since the time of
Henry I.- Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's 'Blue Laws, True and False.' p.
17.
The curious old book called The English Rogue makes the limit
thirteen pence ha'penny; death being the portion of any who steal a
thing 'above the value of thirteen pence ha'penny.'
(20) From many descriptions of larceny, the law expressly took
away the benefit of clergy; to steal a horse, or a hawk, or woolen
cloth from the weaver, was a hanging matter. So it was to kill a
deer from the king's forest, or to export sheep from the Kingdom.- Dr.
J. Hammond Trumbull's 'Blue Laws, True and False,' p. 13.
William Prynne, a learned barrister, was sentenced- (long after
Edward the Sixth's time)- to lose both his ears in the pillory; to
degradation from the bar; a fine of L3,000, and imprisonment for life.
Three years afterward, he gave new offense to Laud, by publishing a
pamphlet against the hierarchy. He was again prosecuted, and was
sentenced to lose what remained of his ears; to pay a fine of
L5,000; to be branded on both his cheeks with the letters S. L. (for
Seditious Libeler), and to remain in prison for life. The severity
of this sentence was equaled by the savage rigor of its execution.-
Ibid., p. 12.
(21) Hume's England.
(22) Christ's Hospital or Blue Coat Scbool, 'the Noblest
Institution in the World.'
The ground on which the Priory of the Grey Friars stood was
conferred by Henry the Eighth on the Corporation of London (who caused
the institution there of a home for poor boys and girls).
Subsequently, Edward the Sixth caused the old Priory to be properly
repaired, and founded within it that noble establishment called the
Blue Coat School, or Christ's Hospital, for the education and
maintenance of orphans and the children of indigent persons.... Edward
would not let him (Bishop Ridley) depart till the letter was written
(to the Lord Mayor), and then charged him to deliver it himself, and
signify his special request and commandment that no time might be lost
in proposing what was convenient, and apprising him of the
proceedings. The work was zealously undertaken, Ridley himself
engaging in it; and the result was, the founding of Christ's
Hospital for the Education of Poor Children. (The king endowed several
other charities at the same time.) 'Lord God,' said he, 'I yield
thee most hearty thanks that thou hast given me life thus long, to
finish this work to the glory of thy name!' That innocent and most
exemplary life was drawing rapidly to its close, and in a few days
he rendered up his spirit to his Creator, praying God to defend the
realm from Papistry.- J. Heneage Jesse's 'London,its Celebrated
Characters and Places.'
In the Great Hall hangs a large picture of King Edward VI seated
on his throne, in a scarlet and ermined robe, holding the scepter in
his left hand, presenting with the other the Charter to the kneeling
Lord Mayor. By his side stands the Chancellor, holding the seals,
and next to him are other officers of state. Bishop Ridley kneels
before him with uplifted hands, as if supplicating a blessing on the
event; while the Aldermen, etc, with the Lord Mayor, kneel on both
sides, occupying the middle ground of the picture; and lastly, in
front, are a double row of boys on one side, and girls on the other,
from the master and matron down to the boy and girl who have stepped
forward from their respective rows, and kneel with raised hands before
the king.- Timbs's 'Curiosities of London,' p. 98.
Christ's Hospital, by ancient custom, possesses the privilege of
addressing the Sovereign on the occasion of his or her coming into the
City to partake of the hospitality of the Corporation of London.-
Ibid.
The Dining-Hall, with its lobby and organ-gallery, occupies the
entire story, which is 187 feet long, 51 feet wide, and 47 feet
high; it is lit by nine large windows, filled with stained glass on
the south side; that is, next to Westminster Hall, the noblest room in
the metropolis. Here the boys, now about 800 in number, dine; and here
are held the 'Suppings in Public,' to which visitors are admitted by
tickets, issued by the Treasurer and by the Governors of Christ's
Hospital. The tables are laid with cheese in wooden bowls; beer in
wooden piggins, poured from leathern jacks; and bread brought in large
baskets. The official company enter; the Lord Mayor, or President,
takes his seat in a state chair, made of oak from St. Catherine's
Church by the Tower; a hymn is sung, accompanied by the organ; a
'Grecian,' or head boy, reads the prayers from the pulpit, silence
being enforced by three drops of a wooden hammer. After prayer the
supper commences, and the visitors walk between the tables. At its
close, the 'trade-boys' take up the baskets, bowls, jacks, piggins,
and candlesticks, and pass in procession, the bowing to the
Governors being curiously formal. This spectacle was witnessed by
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert in 1845.
Among the more eminent Blue Coat Boys are Joshua Bames, editor
of Anacreon and Euripides; Jeremiah Markland, the eminent critic,
particularly in Greek literature; Camden, the antiquary; Bishop
Stillingfleet; Samuel Richardson, the novelist; Thomas Mitchell, the
translator of Aristophanes; Thomas Barnes, many years editor of the
London Times; Coleridge, Charles Lamb, and Leigh Hunt.
No boy is admitted before he is seven years old, or after he is
nine; and no boy can remain in the school after he is fifteen,
King's boys and 'Grecians' alone excepted. There are about 500
Governors, at the head of whom are the Sovereign and the Prince of
Wales. The qualification for a Governor is payment of L500.- Ibid.
GENERAL NOTE
One hears much about the 'hideous Blue-Laws of Connecticut,' and
is accustomed to shudder piously when they are mentioned. There are
people in America- and even in England!- who imagine that they were
a very monument of malignity, pitilessness, and inhumanity; whereas,
in reality they were about the first sweeping departure from judicial
atrocity which the 'civilized' world had seen. This humane and kindly
Blue-Law code, of two hundred and forty years ago, stands all by
itself, with ages of bloody law on the further side of it, and a
century and three-quarters of bloody English law on this side of it.
There has never been a time- under the Blue-Laws or any other-
when above fourteen crimes were punishable by death in Connecticut.
But in England, within the memory of men who are still hale in body
and mind, two hundred and twenty-three crimes were punishable by
death! These facts are worth knowing- and worth thinking about, too.
See Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull's Blue Laws, True and False, p. 11.
THE END